Weary Soldiers
by rusticautumn
Summary: It is a treacherous and dangerous journey taken by the soldier during war. Set after the declaration of war with Spain and during the subsequent campaign, watch the Inseparables travel a tumultuous physical and emotional journey that only gets harder when they believe they have lost one of their own.
1. Chapter 1

**AN/ And we're back! This story is very nearly finished (I've got about 2-3 chapters left to write) so I'll be posting relatively regularly (most likely every 2 days, if not more often). I am VERY excited to share this story... it's the longest one I've ever written/posted on this site. I really hope you all enjoy it.**

 **So, without further ado, let's get started... we begin deep across the Spanish borders, a few months into the military campaign. The first chapter is something of a prologue and a bit short, the following chapters will be longer.**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 _December_

The noises of the camp bled through the tent canvas: the sharpening and clang of weapons, coals burning, men chatting and yelling, and the wind roaring up a perfect storm. The cold seeped through as well, and the small stove in the centre of the tent did little to stave off the winter chill.

Huddled over the desk with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders Athos cursed the cold and the noise as he tried to finish writing the report due to be sent back to Paris that same evening. He heard the tent open and two men walk in and approach the desk. A cup of ale was placed before him and he glared at the object as it had offended him greatly before reluctantly sitting back in his chair and taking in the sorry state of his comrades.

He looked at Aramis first, wanting to ignore the inevitable for as long as possible. Aramis' hair was tied out of his face, and the tell-tale blood stained the edges of his coat and smeared his forehead.

"How're the injured?" Athos asked his friend.

Aramis grimaced. He'd spent most of the day dealing with the most recently injured soldiers.

"Two dead," he reported. "Another three will need to be sent home. They won't be fit for duty anytime soon. Etienne's included in that number. The rest can travel when we're ready."

"When are we moving, Captain?" Porthos interjected. Athos frowned at the use of his title. He knew that this was a decision he couldn't make with his heart, and that he couldn't risk the war, nor all the lives of his men for just one soldier, but Porthos' underlying anger seemed to be ignorant of how much his next decision would truly pain him.

"You had no luck?" Athos asked, a pleading sound entering into his voice.

"I didn't find a trail," Porthos sighed, dragging a chair towards the stove and sitting down to try and warm himself. He had arrived back less than a half hour previous after traipsing at great speed through the forest trails behind their current position. The snow had fallen steadily and wet him to the core.

Athos watched his friend and felt the urge to throw his ale across the room in his anger and frustration.

"We have to move tomorrow," Athos said. "I can't wait any longer. I…"

"Send me back out there," Porthos said. "I only had two days before I had to turn back. If I had a little longer—"

"You were out there for a full two days, Porthos, and you couldn't even find a trail!" Athos cut him off angrily. "You won't… you're not going to…"

Aramis and Porthos shared a look with one another.

"We don't know he's dead," Aramis said tightly.

Athos looked at Aramis with hallowed eyes.

"With his injuries, in this weather… he is by now."

"Athos…"

"I can't condone leaving men behind to search for a dead body," Athos said harshly. "We move out tomorrow."

"Ath—"

"Leave now." The command was that of a Captain. But it held inside of it the undertones of a grieving friend trying to cope with the loss of a brother. He knew that if his brother wasn't dead already, his decision to move out would be the finishing blow.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN/ There's a bit of jumping forth in the next couple of chapters, but you should be able to follow it clearly enough.**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 ** _Nine days ago…_**

The horses were ready, and the men loading the last of their supplies before setting off. The wind was bitterly cold and most of the men were wrapped in scarfs, gloves, and hats. There was one without a hat amongst the party…

"D'Artagnan!"

The Gascon looked up from where he was stood beside his mount and watched at Athos, his brother and Captain, approached him.

"Here's the map," Athos offered out a piece of parchment to his brother. "It's as up-to-date as we can get it, but information changes rapidly and I cannot guarantee—"

"This will serve us well, Athos, and what little information we don't have, we'll be prepared for," d'Artagnan stopped his worried mentor. "We've got this."

"Aye, we do," Etienne, another of the soldiers in the advance group announced from his steed, which he had just mounted. He was one of the more seasoned troops, with grey starting to creep its way into his hair line, and he had somehow managed to remain clean-shaven, despite the relentless days of travel. "Your attentiveness is noted, Captain, but sometimes you've got to let go."

"I'm beginning to have a whole new appreciation for how Treville used to feel every time we left the garrison."

"Well I'd rather have a Captain that cares about his men, than have one that thought me expendable," d'Artagnan said, only half-teasingly. "I'll see you in a few days brother."

Athos responded with a rare, tight-lipped smile.

"We'll see you at the next checkpoint," Athos agreed.

"And we'll have a hot fire and broth going by the time you reach us!" Henri added as he moved past the pair of Inseparables.

"Take care, d'Artagnan," Athos told his brother as the Gascon mounted up.

"You worry too much Athos," d'Artagnan responded. "And you brood. You should brood less."

Athos scowled and d'Artagnan began to move away at a steady trot, alongside the nine other men that Athos had selected for the advance scout. As they left the clearing d'Artagnan turned briefly and gave Athos a quick grin, to which the older Musketeer returned a reluctant smile as the younger soldier waved to Porthos and Aramis, who had also come out to bid the advance party off.

As Athos watched his soldiers leave he felt the same horrible churning feeling that he had felt in his gut every single time he'd made a decision like this… a decision that would put his men… his brothers' lives at risk.

"You look worried," Aramis told his friend, as he approached.

"It's become a chronic condition recently," Athos responded, his frown deepening.

In two days' time the main party would follow the scouts, who would have cleared or left markers through the unmapped territories, to meet with them at the next staging point. It was expected that the scout party would arrive there in three days, and that the main party would join them another three days after that, four at the outside.

But this was war, and things never went as smoothly as one would hope.

 ** _Seven days ago…_**

Henri swore loudly and profusely.

"Are you alright?" d'Artagnan asked bemusedly from where he was unloading the food from his pack for the evening meal.

It was the second evening since they had left the main party and they had made good time, so were expecting to reach the next outpost by the following afternoon.

"It's bloody cold," Henri muttered irritably.

D'Artagnan exchanged a glance with Etienne and Michel who were sitting opposite him with equally amused expressions on their face.

"You're from the _north_ of France, Henri," Etienne cajoled. "Surely this is a usual affair for you?"

"I escaped to Paris because it was _less_ cold," Henri complained. "And now we're crossing the Spanish border and it's snowing even here."

"Maybe it's you," d'Artagnan joked. "Maybe wherever you go, the snow goes too?"

"Ha ha," Henri emitted a fake, forced laugh that had the other men grinning at his petulance.

"Alright Henri," Etienne said good-naturedly. "I'll relieve your watch early. You sit by the fire."

"Don't be ridiculous," Henri muttered from where he stood.

"I'm not," Etienne said kindly. "You're cold, which means your attention is diverted. So take a seat by the fire while I take the watch."

Henri looked at Etienne a little wearily but finally nodded in acceptance and gratefully settled beside the flames that d'Artagnan had been stoking for the last few minutes.

After Henri's outburst the men settled into a comfortable silence as they set about finishing putting their camp up. As the advance scout they were travelling light, and more worried about their surroundings then establishing a permanent base, so they didn't have much more than the fire and their bed rolls and blankets to make the space their own. But still… this was a soldier's house, even if it had no ceiling or walls, and they were all comfortable within it, even with a wary guard and the unwavering cold.

It was maybe five hours later when d'Artagnan felt himself being shaken awake by Etienne's sturdy and calloused hand. D'Artagnan was immediately alert and reached for his weapons, which were rested by his side. Most of the men were already awake, and Henri was bent waking the last. Etienne signalled towards the camp's left flank, but d'Artagnan had already heard the danger… apparently they were not the only scouts in the forest.

There was little grace period before they were met with an onslaught of mounted Spaniards. They were outnumbered three to one, and none of the musketeers had had time to mount so were at an increased disadvantage.

D'Artagnan had immediately fired his weapon into the foray and saw, to his satisfaction, his target, and several other Spaniards, fall from their mounts as the musketeers' bullets hit their mark.

From here on out, the battle was bloody and messy. A chaotic mangling of bodies that figuratively and literally bled into one another.

D'Artagnan was immediately set upon my two mounted Spaniards and he made quick work to dismount one, but the other maintained the upper-hand, and d'Artagnan felt his energy quickly waning as he was continually forced to block and parry the thrusts raining down atop his head.

He needed to escape the onslaught but could feel himself getting hemmed in. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the musketeers in their company fall from a sword thrust through the chest, and he all but screamed in his aggressive attack against his opponent, jumping to extend his reach, and landing a slice upon the man's side.

His opponent growled, and then smiled, and d'Artagnan had only a moment to wonder at the fast change in the man's expression before he felt a crippling pain in his leg, followed moments later by the report of a musket blast ringing in his ears… the pain hit before the sound.

D'Artagnan crumpled to the ground and his opponent grinned cruelly as jumped down from his mount. Somewhere in the back of his mind, d'Artagnan faintly registered that if the enemy was dismounting, then they must have won the field.

The man bent over the Gascon. He was maybe Aramis' age, with calculating, green eyes, a rough beard, and a leering smile. He said something to d'Artagnan, but the musketeer's Spanish was a little rusty and he couldn't make it out.

D'Artagnan spat in the man's face, and that was his last conscious thought for a while, because then there was a sharp pain in his head and the darkness swallowed him.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

While d'Artagnan was on the other side of their small camp, Etienne was also battling two Spaniards. He managed to get the upper-hand momentarily, but then found himself thrown backwards against a tree before something sharp sliced against his ribs. He grimaced and attempted to retaliate, but he felt something knock against his head and he dropped clumsily and painfully in a heap.

He breathed hollowly, expecting his end, only to watch in surprise as the two men also dropped from the shots fired across the camp. Etienne tried to spy which of his brothers had made the shots that saved his life, but his vision was fading in and out and he was ultimately unable to see that far out.

The noise in his head dimmed for a few moments, and when he finally forced his eyes to open again he saw around him a field strewn with bodies. Most of his brothers lay dead while many of the Spaniards remained standing. Opposite him he watched helplessly as Michel was killed by a sword's thrust.

A yell pierced the air and he tried to find its source, finally locating d'Artagnan who was driving forward in his attack against one of the Spaniards.

Etienne saw the danger and tried to call out to warn his friend, but his shout came out as nothing more than a breathless whistle and he could all but watch as the musket ball ripped through the Gascon's leg, felling him instantly. He heard the shattering of bone and grimaced in the same moment that he tried to reach for his weapon, but his muscles felt as though they were weighed down, and his vision began to dim dangerously again.

As his vision faded, d'Artagnan was at the mercy of the enemy, and there wasn't a thing he could do.

Etienne shivered mercilessly as he awoke with a pounding headache and a horrible tight feeling wrapped around his ribs. It must have been some hours later because dawn was beginning to filter through the thick winter clouds.

The vision that greeted him wasn't pretty. The smell of death lingered in the air, and Etienne cried softly as he took in the sight of his fallen brothers. Lethargically, Etienne struggled to his feet and staggered to the nearest man by him. Henri was cold to the touch… his eyes lifeless. Etienne grimaced and closed the man's eyes, whispering a prayer, and then moved to his next brother. It was a slow and tiring journey, and streaks of tears ran across his dirt stained face as he made his rounds.

He finally ended his journey beside d'Artagnan, whose leg appeared to still be bleeding sluggishly. Etienne frowned, and then placed a hand to the man's neck only to feel a pulse beating beneath his fingers.

"My God…" Etienne breathed. And then he was laughing in a strange moment of euphoria at having found his brother alive. He carefully examined d'Artagnan for other injuries, and other than a nasty cut on the back of the man's head, and his leg, he appeared to have sustained no other damage.

Frantically, he searched for a supply pack where he located some bandages and, among his dead brothers, worked to save the life of the one remaining living soul within his company.

He splinted and bandaged an insensate d'Artagnan's leg and head, and then turned to work on himself, wrapping the wound that sliced across his ribs. The injury was painful and would undoubtedly require stitches, but the bandage would do until they could reunite with the main party.

By Etienne's reckoning, the main party would break camp today and follow them. With two days advantage over the main group, if Etienne and d'Artagnan travelled, even at half speed, they would hopefully reunite with their brothers by the following morning. Etienne grimaced at the thought of making such a journey while injured but they didn't have much choice, and Athos and the men needed to know about the threat posed by the Spaniards in the forest.

Reluctantly acceptant of the journey he knew they would have to make, Etienne salvaged some supplies and searched hopefully for their horses which were, unfortunately, nowhere to be found; either released, startled, or stolen. They would be making this journey on foot.

Etienne finally could put it off no longer and knelt down over d'Artagnan and attempted to wake the man.

At first d'Artagnan was completely unresponsive and it took some rather persistent shaking of the shoulders to force the stubborn Gascon awake.

"Are you with me? D'Artagnan? D'Artagnan, it's Etienne. Wake up."

D'Artagnan groaned and mumbled something that Etienne couldn't quite make out. The Gascon's eyes were unfocused and his head lolled.

"D'Artagnan!" Etienne called out more forcefully, and the Gascon stirred a bit more lucidly.

"Et-ienne?" he slurred.

"That's it lad," Etienne grinned at the response. "Come on back now."

D'Artagnan blinked a few times and winced at the collective pain emanating from his leg and his head.

"D'Artagnan, I hate to do this, but we need to move."

"My leg?" d'Artagnan asked – he had a faint recollection of being shot. "The others?"

"It's just you and me," Etienne said sadly, but urgently. "D'Artagnan, _we have to move_."

Slowly the message seemed to be getting through, and d'Artagnan attempted to sit up, only for all of the colour to drop from his face. He rolled and vomited at the nauseous swell that had roiled in his stomach.

"Well that's a concussion," Etienne muttered, mostly to himself.

After emptying the contents of his stomach, d'Artagnan heaved his chest as he attempted to breathe properly and clear his head. Instead, all he felt was dizziness and an overwhelmingly intense pain pounding at the back of his head. Not to mention the loud throbbing running up from his damaged leg.

"Come on, d'Artagnan," Etienne all but begged the man.

D'Artagnan mentally shook himself and then nodded ever so slightly.

"Get me up," he said hoarsely.

Etienne sighed in relief and regret.

"This is going to hurt lad," she said apologetically.

"We've got to move," d'Artagnan responded determinedly.

"Alright then."

Carefully, Etienne gripped d'Artagnan under both arms and lifted while the lad found purchase with his right, uninjured foot. Once standing, balanced one-legged and swaying dangerously, Etienne hooked the man's left arm over his back, and gripped him tightly, forcing him upright.

"Don't pass out on me," Etienne said, only half-jokingly.

"I won't if you won't," ground out d'Artagnan.

In a clumsy and slow walk, the two soldiers left the blood-soaked battlefield.

Etienne noted that d'Artagnan had tears in his eyes, and made no comment as to whether that may have been because of the dead brothers they left behind or from the immense pain he was bound to be in.

They walked in silence and made reasonable progress despite their relatively damaged conditions. However, as the afternoon set in, Etienne could feel d'Artagnan's body shaking in his grip, and he began to feel heavier as he became unable to sustain an increasing amount of his own weight.

"We should rest," Etienne said eventually. "Let's sit here for a while."

D'Artagnan all but moaned in relief as he was lowered to the ground.

"We'll just stop here a while," Etienne said as he sat beside the Gascon. As he did he felt the slice against his ribs pull painfully.

He searched in the bag he carried and found the water skin which he drank from liberally before passing it to d'Artagnan only to find the Gascon already sleeping.

Etienne smiled tightly and lent back against the boulder they had nestled against. He tried to watch the road but his eyes felt heavy and somewhere in the back of his mind he became aware that maybe it wasn't only d'Artagnan who was shaking like a leaf.

* * *

 **AN/ I probably won't have time to update tomorrow - RL (and Mother's Day) calls, but expect the next chapter some time on Monday.**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN/ Thank you everyone for your reviews, follows, and faves. I'm so pleased to see that people are enjoying this story! :)**

 **So this chapter's full of angst and questions... but all will be revealed in the next few chapters.**

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

The train had stopped and Athos frowned as he passed by the stilled men to find out why the halt had occurred. Somewhere he heard a shout for Aramis to make his way to the front, and this only quickened his pace.

Both he and Aramis reached the front of train at the same moment, and he heard Aramis curse as he quickly moved towards the injured musketeer.

By the side of the path was Etienne, pale and shivering with a fever that was causing him to sweat profusely despite the chill in the air and the snowfall. Covering him was a cloak that looked too like d'Artagnan's travelling cloak than Athos cared to admit.

Athos stayed back while Aramis crouched down beside the injured soldier. He glanced about their surroundings and ordered a few men to set a perimeter. While he was giving orders, the amateur medic had finished his initial assessment and he stood up, giving orders for the injured musketeer to be carried to one of wagons at the centre of their troop, before approaching Athos.

"He's got some bruised ribs and a nasty slice across his side which has become infected. It was bandaged, and from the angle of the knot, I'd guess he tied it himself," Aramis paused, but clearly there was more to be said. Athos grunted expectantly. "The wound's at least a day old, if not longer."

"The advance party were attacked," Athos spoke the words he didn't want to hear. It wasn't a question.

"He's out for the count, and won't be able to tell us anything until his fever breaks," Aramis supplied sadly. "Perhaps he came back to warn us. We may find the others up ahead…"

"If he was the least injured of their party, then I don't take much hope in that speculation," Athos said. His foul mood was radiating off him in hot bursts, and the only reason Aramis didn't take offence was because he knew it was fear for d'Artagnan that fed Athos' anger.

"We need to keep moving down the trail," Athos said. "Make sure everyone is on alert."

Aramis frowned, but nodded, as he moved to carry out the command. Both musketeers mounted up and rode down opposite flanks of their marching troupe. As the group started moving, Aramis returned to the medic's wagons and rode beside it as the trained battlefield medics worked on Etienne. A little further down the line, Aramis caught Porthos' questioning look, but Aramis could do little more than shake his head.

The men marched on until another stall was called. Aramis lingered by the wagon as the medics finished re-binding Etienne's wound.

"We're placed a poultice on the wound to draw out the infection," one of the men said. "Now it's just a waiting game."

Aramis sighed and nodded. He briefly took his hat off so he could run his hand through his damp hair, before moving down the line to find the reason for their stalling. As he approached the front he caught stray whispers from his fellow musketeers that had him moving faster, and wishing he could move slower… backwards even.

Suddenly Porthos appeared at his side and reined his horse in.

"What is it?" Aramis asked.

"Perhaps you should go back to Etienne," Porthos suggested. Aramis scowled and jumped from his mount. Porthos sighed and followed suit, knowing that his ill-fated attempts to keep his friend away would never have been successful.

As he broached the clearing, with Porthos at his elbow, Aramis felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. He momentarily forgot to breathe and found himself transported into a nightmare memory…

… snow… bodies… dead… blood… brothers… dead…

The bodies were strewn, half buried in the lightly falling snow that graced the winter skies. Aramis suddenly felt a pressure on his shoulder and turned to find Porthos looking at him with concern.

"We're not in Savoy," Porthos reminded his friend gently.

"We may as well be," Aramis said softly before heaving in a deep breath and moving forward.

Athos stood to the side with a face like thunder and a fist that was screwed up so tightly, Aramis feared he may pop his fingers out of joint.

"Athos?" Aramis called to his Captain and brother.

Suddenly one of the younger soldiers came forward.

"There are twenty-five bodies," the young lad – he as barely of age – told the captain quietly. "Seventeen Spaniards. Eight of our own."

Athos' head snapped up at this piece of information.

"Eight?" Porthos repeated.

"Yes sirs," the young soldier affirmed. "D'Artagnan isn't among them."

Aramis wasn't sure what to feel: relief, fear, and worry assaulted him all at once.

"That makes no sense," Porthos argued, although he, too, was conflicted, for he was relieved to find that one of his closest brothers was not among the dead… and yet, this offered no information for where he may be.

"Etienne was wrapped in d'Artagnan's cloak," Athos said quietly. "I'm sure it was his."

"Did they leave here together?" Porthos asked.

"If they did, then why wasn't d'Artagnan with Etienne on the path? Or further along the path, if he'd gone on for help?" Aramis asked.

Athos frowned deeply.

"How close is Etienne to waking?" he asked. A Captain's question.

"At least until after the fever breaks. If we're lucky a few hours, if not…" Aramis didn't have to finish the sentence.

"We're less than a day away from the camp," Athos finally said. "We'll move ahead and travel through the evening. Hopefully Etienne will be with us by then and we can decide a course of action."

"I could go back to where we found Etienne and look for any signs of him," Porthos suggested.

"We don't even know what happened," Athos shook his head.

"They were clearly ambushed," Porthos argued.

"And outnumbered at least two to one," Athos snapped angrily. "When Etienne awakes we'll arrange a search if one is needed!"

"And what if that's too late?" Porthos argued back. "If we're moving forward then that's even further we've got to go back for him. This is d'Artagnan we're talking about, damn you!"

Athos snapped to attention and glared at Porthos.

"Don't you think I don't already know that?" he asked scathingly. "I can't base a decision that affects everyone, on the life of one man. No matter how much I might wish it!"

Porthos looked in mixed emotions: ready to punch his Captain, and also ready to reassure his brother.

"We move out now," Athos addressed those that were gathered near. "Have our men loaded onto a wagon. We'll bury them as well as we can manage when we make camp."

No one moved for a moment. A few of the musketeer's glanced at Porthos' visibly shaking figure.

"You heard the Captain's order," Aramis called. "Let's move!"

The marksman placed himself between his two brothers and rested his hands of Porthos' shoulders.

"We'll find him," Aramis said sternly. "But first we need to make camp and set a perimeter."

Porthos glared at his brother, and then across his shoulder to where Athos stood. Their eyes met for only an instant, but Athos couldn't continue to meet Porthos' accusatory gaze, and dropped his look, before turning to direct the men.

"Porthos," Aramis called to his brother.

"Yeah, I heard," Porthos muttered gruffly, before turning and following the rest of the men back to the road.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN/ First, an apology - I had meant to post yesterday, but something urgent came up, and I had to step in to help out a friend who was in desperate need of a lift long-distance... lot's of driving, and not much time or energy to post by the time I finally made it home late last night.**

 **Secondly, we get to see some of Porthos' thoughts in this chapter - hopefully he still appears in character. Hope you all enjoy, and apologies again for the wait.**

 **PS. I do drop the F-Bomb in this chapter (though swearing is typically infrequent in my work).**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

It was dark when they finally reached the dedicated outpost. Thankfully, they were joining with another regiment of soldiers – an advance party that had been awaiting the musketeers arrival before they moved forward.

They were already several leagues across the Spanish border, and the deeper they went into Spanish territory, the more dangerous it became. When the men arrived, most set to expanding the camp, Aramis went to check on Etienne's condition, and Porthos followed Athos who went in search of the Lieutenant he was expected to relieve. Neither musketeer spoke, but Porthos' anger was palpable. For his part, Athos had drawn within himself and was attempting to purge his emotional turmoil. It wasn't working especially well, and the performance of being Captain and the weight of command on his shoulders was all that kept him from going back out in search of d'Artagnan himself.

"Captain," a jovial shout called.

Both men turned to see Lieutenant Marcel striding over, where he then the elder musketeer's hand.

"It's good to see you," Marcel said. "We're ready to move out at your command, and received a letter not two days ago with instructions of the next strategic pass to be made."

"I'll review it with you now, and then I have an injured man I must check on."

Marcel's face clouded.

"You're trip here was not uneventful?" the Lieutenant asked.

"Regretfully not," Athos said. His hand twitched – he longed for a bottle to drown in, but it was not to be. "Our advance scout party was ambushed. All but two dead, one of whom is injured, the other… missing."

Marcel frowned.

"It's treacherous this fast march," Marcel mused. "We can never completely clear the path we're moving through, the speed they have us moving."

"We'll find our man," Porthos interjected.

Marcel glanced at Porthos with something that looked a cross between pity and sorrow.

"Shall we review the instructions, Captain?" Marcel asked.

"Very well," Athos agreed. "Porthos, why don't you check on Etienne?"

Porthos scowled at the clear dismissal by his Captain. He turned wordlessly and traipsed through the camp.

He was proud of his brother's promotion, but it changed the dynamics of their group. He understood that this was no easier for Athos than it was for him, and that one of his closest friend's was probably tearing himself up from the inside in his worry for d'Artagnan, but he was no longer just responsible for their wayward Gascon, and it weighed on all of the Inseparables.

The worst of it, however, was not that Athos was conflicted between his friendship and his responsibility, but that Porthos couldn't help but blame Athos for putting his position of command first and his love for his brother second. He understood why, but he hated it, and that hate was passing on to his brother… because ultimately, the decision came from him. The decision to delay the search for d'Artagnan had been made by Athos, and were anything bad to come because of it, then Athos would blame himself, but, and this was the greatest regret for Porthos, so would he.

His painful musings came to an abrupt stop when he reached the medical tent, which was located near to centre of the camp. Ducking inside, he found that it was blessedly rather empty: only ten or so beds were filled, although he expected that this number would only rise in time.

It wasn't difficult to spot Aramis, and he quickly moved pass the beds to reach his friend. In the bed between them Etienne lay with a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

"How is he?" Porthos asked.

"His fever's broken," Aramis replied. "But only just. He's not quite ready to join the world of coherency."

"Athos will be by shortly," Porthos said curtly, pulling a chair up to the bed and slumping into it. Aramis glanced up at his brother. He could sense the thoughts going through his friend's head, but he wasn't quite ready to crack that shell open just yet… lest he get swallowed up within the same sentiment. Right now, whether he liked it or not, he had become the self-appointed mediator of the group.

The two men sat in relative silence for just under an hour when Athos strode in. He wore his Captain's face… a performance that was becoming noticeably undone at the seams.

"How is he?" Athos asked Aramis, echoing Porthos' own enquiry so long ago.

"The fever's broken. He may be ready to wake up soon."

"Can we wake him up now?" Athos asked.

"I know we would like information and to go searching for d'Artagnan, but he's only just gotten past the fever," Aramis explained. "He's—"

"Awake," said a gruff voice from between them. All three men turned to the injured soldier lying in the bed between them. His face was pale – gaunt even – and fine stubble was growing on his chin.

"Etienne!" proclaimed Aramis. "How are you feeling?"

"Like my side is on fire," Etienne mumbled.

"I'll get you some pain relief," Aramis said, as he searched the supplies he had beside the bed.

"How's d'Artagnan?" Etienne asked.

All three brothers froze. There was a long, stilted pause.

"We didn't find d'Artagnan," Athos finally said, though he nearly choked on the words.

"He was with me," Etienne said in confusion. "He… We were walking together." Etienne grimaced in pain as he tried to shift in bed.

"Etienne," Athos knelt beside the bed so the injured musketeer could see him better. "I need you to tell me what happened. From the beginning."

Etienne frowned. His eyes shut and for a moment Athos thought he had drifted off, but then he blinked and turned his head towards the Captain.

"Ambush," Etienne said. "'Bout thirty of 'em. They killed… they killed the others… D'Artagnan was alive, but he took a musket shot to the leg. Bone shattered. I splinted it, but he was bleeding still. Concussion too. We were walking back to camp… stopped for… stopped to rest… I don't… I think that's…"

"That's where we found you," Aramis finished for him. Gently he guided the pain reliever to Etienne's mouth and helped him drink.

"What state was d'Artagnan in?" Athos asked.

"Bad concussion," Etienne said succinctly. "Dizzy… he couldn't walk… his leg… he was shaking… or I thought… I think I was the one shaking… I'm sorry Captain. They're dead… they're…"

"Not your fault Etienne," Athos said. "This is no-ones fault." _But mine_ , were the unspoken words.

Etienne frowned, but the pain reliever was doing its work, and in moments he had drifted back off to sleep.

"Whelp must have gone for help," Porthos said.

"He couldn't walk," Aramis pointed out.

"Lad's resourceful, you think he wouldn't have tried if he thought Etienne's life was in danger," Porthos responded.

"I know," Aramis sighed. "It's just… concussion, the leg injury… he wouldn't have gotten far. Why didn't we come across him?"

"I don't know, but now we know he survived the ambush, we're going to go look for him," Porthos said with conviction.

Athos cleared his throat.

"I don't care if you're the fucking Captain," Porthos turned to his brother. "I'm going."

"I know you are. I want you to," Athos said.

"What's the "but"?" Aramis asked from where he stood.

"I can only justify sending one man back," Athos sighed. "Porthos is the better tracker, and also capable to baring d'Artagnan's weight…"

"Fair's fair," Porthos nodded. "What else?"

"The orders Marcel had received…"

"What did they say?" Aramis said anxiously.

"We're to move out in four days," Athos said. "You'll have to be back by then, Porthos, whether you find him or not."

"I'm not returning until I find him," Porthos responded. "Buggery to your four days deadline."

"That's an order," Athos said sternly. Then more softly, "don't make me court-martial you."

Porthos glared at his Captain, and could see the conflict in his brother's eyes as he laid the decision he'd made… a Captain's decision.

"I get you're doing your job, but that doesn't mean I don't want to punch you," growled Porthos.

Athos looked and felt as if he'd been slapped.

"Porthos… this is not a decision I want to…"

"I'll be going now, Captain," Porthos cut him off. "Haven't got much time."

Porthos stormed out leaving Aramis and Athos standing in the tent amongst the sleeping and injured men.

"He understands," Aramis said. "He just doesn't like it."

"That makes two of us," Athos muttered. "I hate myself already."

"You shouldn't."

"D'Artagnan may die, may be dead already, because of the decisions I've made in the last few days," Athos said. "You may forgive me, Porthos might do one day too, but I'll never forgive myself."

Aramis wanted to respond, but Athos had already turned away and strode out of the room. As he thought about Athos' words Aramis couldn't but feel the smallest bit amused at the irony of their situation: Porthos was playing mother-hen in place of Athos, Athos was as remote as he had ever been, and Aramis – normally the emotional, hot-headed mess that he was – was playing mediator while the anger sparked up between his brothers.

In the quiet of the infirmary tent his pulled out his crucifix and prayed for his brothers.

Etienne, who hadn't quite yet fallen into a full slumber, listened to the quiet litany of words passing through the marksman's lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN/ Time for some answers (and much hurt)...**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 _Two days previously…_

D'Artagnan's leg was burning. Every time he placed even the slightest bit of pressure on it he felt the bones grind together and it took most of his considerable energy to not scream loudly with each step. As the two musketeer's moved slowly back down the road, d'Artagnan found himself inordinately grateful for Etienne's support.

The issue d'Artagnan had, however, was not just the bloody broken mess that resembled his left leg, but also the pounding headache that made him feel as if someone was gripping his skull in an iron-clad grip. He occasionally found this vision greying out and there was a persistent feeling of nausea which was making the entire trip manifold less enjoyable.

If asked, d'Artagnan honestly wouldn't have known how long the pair of them had been moving… only that with each step he was feeling himself deteriorate further.

Etienne didn't appear to be doing much better, and had started to tremble, though whether that was from the weight he was taking on in assisting d'Artagnan's steps, or some other underlying issue, d'Artagnan didn't know.

D'Artagnan felt concern, but also lacked the energy to do anything more than keep moving forward.

"We should rest," Etienne said, the voice penetrating the fugue that had descended around d'Artagnan's senses. "Let's sit here for a while."

D'Artagnan wasn't really conscious by the time he felt their direction shift slightly. He felt himself being lowered down and heard himself moan in relief as he felt the pressure of bearing weight on his leg release itself.

He heard Etienne say something else but couldn't make it out as the banging in his head thundered on and he let himself fall into a deep and pain-filled sleep.

When d'Artagnan awoke he felt warm and cold all at once. Something in the back of his mind told him he probably had a fever, but he didn't want to think about that too much when he was still stuck on the open road.

He groaned and took in his surroundings. He knew that they had stopped for a rest, but it was now dark, and d'Artagnan suspected that it had not been Etienne's plan to stop as long as they appeared to have done.

Thinking of his fellow soldier, d'Artagnan quickly turned to check on him. The action was ill-advised as it sent a thundering rampage shooting through his skull. The Gascon grimaced and reached out towards Etienne, who was sleeping beside him, his back leaning against a boulder.

"Etienne?" he called to the musketeer anxiously. His voice cracked from misuse and the growing fever.

Etienne, for his part, did not respond to d'Artagnan's call.

Anxiously d'Artagnan shuffled a little nearer to check his friend. Even before he reached out to touch him, he could feel the heat radiating off the musketeer.

"Damn," d'Artagnan muttered.

He checked Etienne over, discovering the bandages wrapped around his middle and seeing the blood seeping through. D'Artagnan thought he might try to clean the wound, despite his trembling hands.

He breathed deeply as he tried to get control of the banging that was drilling through his head, making his vision zero out and his whole body feel hot and cold all at the same time. Once he was convinced that he wasn't going to pass out, d'Artagnan reached for the water-skin to use on Etienne's wound, only to find it empty. He sighed and lent back and took in the scene around him.

Vaguely, he became aware that he knew where he was, or that he at least recognised the part of the road they were on, from having travelled through it only a few days previously. He also remembered the water spring that was almost as near as round the next bend. He remembered because they had stopped there to water the horses.

He already regretted his decision as soon as he made it, but knew that he and Etienne would both need water to drink, in addition to treating his friends wound, and that rescue wouldn't arrive for at least another day.

Looking over Etienne and still finding him shivering, d'Artagnan pulled his travelling cloak free and settled it over the musketeer, with every intention to snuggle under it also when he returned, in a bid to share body warmth.

Thus resolved in his plan, d'Artagnan donned the bag with the water skins in and braced himself against the boulder in order to stand. It was a painful motion, even before he put weight on his injured leg. He stood, one legged for a moment as he regained his equilibrium and breathed harshly through his nose in an attempt to quell the nausea that had jumped back to the surface.

Finally, grimacing, he let his left foot reach the floor and took a step.

It was agony. He all but cried out from the pain as he lurched forward. He nearly gave up in his task, but was resolved that, if they were both feverish, they would need water to see them through until their brothers reached them.

Reaching for the nearest tree, d'Artagnan moved forward and continued on what was a slow and agonising trip, lurching from one tree to the next in a bid to keep himself upright. When he reached the bend in the road and saw the spring he all but cried in relief. He began moving towards it when he heard voices to his left.

He stopped and looked up hopefully, only for his face to cloud over in confusion and then shock as he detected the use of the Spanish language. He tried to move into the shelter of the trees, but wasn't fast enough, and the next thing he knew the felt himself being dragged back and then thrown to the floor.

D'Artagnan cried out at the impact and from the fact that the motion had caused his injured leg to twist underneath him. His vision blacked out and he lost consciousness for a brief moment.

When he roused he found himself circled by five Spaniards, but there was one in particular that caught his attention; the calculating green eyes were easy enough to recognise his previous attacker by.

The Spaniard, too, recognised him, and leered as he lent in closer to d'Artagnan. He said something in Spanish that d'Artagnan didn't understand and then turned back to the Gascon.

"You are resilient," he said stilted French. "My idea of fun."

D'Artagnan summoned all his energy and spat at the man's face.

The Spaniard lurched back in shock and then moved just as quickly forward and backhanded d'Artagnan so sharply that the Gascon only had an instant to register the pain that flared up in his head before he collapsed into the darkness of unconsciousness.

The Spaniards laughed at the soldier that lay in a heap at their feet. Orders were given, and then d'Artagnan's hands were bound behind his back and he was lifting onto one of the waiting horses, thrown across it on his belly. The men tied him in place so he would fall off, climbed their own mounts, and continued back towards their Keep.

Just around the bend, in the opposite direction of the way they travelled, sat Etienne, unconscious and trapped in the chasm of fever, with d'Artagnan's cloak wrapped around him for warmth.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN/ First of all, an apology for the lateness of this upload. I've been travelling the last few days and haven't had time to post. Hopefully this chapter is worth the wait.**

 **Also note: the flash-forward scene that you were shown in Chapter One occurs just before this chapter... so unfortunately, d'Artagnan is not yet rescued, despite some of your hopes.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 _February_

Letters travel slowly during the winter, even when delivered during times of war, so it was over a month later that the letter finally arrived on Treville's desk.

It was bulky envelope and the writing was in Athos' hand. The sheaves of papers that had arrived from the front had included a number of pieces of information including troop movements, death tolls, and a listing of particular events and names. Most namely had been the report of an ambush on an advance scout that had left eight men dead. Treville had spent most of the previous day contacting the relevant family members, a deed he had not cherished.

The letter he held in his hand now he had left to last, and when he came to open it, he wished he had unsealed it sooner. Inside was a slip of paper and another envelope, addressed to Constance. Again, the writing belonged to Athos. The air dropped within the room as Treville realised the implication and he desperately read the paper that Athos had addressed to him, in the hopes that it would contradict what Treville thought to be true.

After reading the letter over again, the Defence Minister stood up from his desk and paced his floor for a few moments before retrieving the bottle of scotch from his drawer. He poured a liberal dose and knocked it back. It didn't have the desired effect of lighting the fire within him. Drink can make men courageous, but Treville had no courage for what he was about to do.

Leaving his office, he located a messenger and sent for both the Queen and Constance to meet him in one of Reading Rooms in the East Wing of the palace; a place he knew they would have privacy. He then walked through the meandering corridors to locate the same room and sat to wait, the letter in his chest pocket burning a hole where it rested.

It didn't take long for the Queen and her confidante to arrive, and Treville stood and bowed to the royal.

"Captain," Queen Anne addressed him with a modest but curious look.

"Apologies for the summons, your majesty," Treville said slowly, taking in Constance where she stood a step behind the Queen. "I… perhaps you should both sit."

"Then you must too," Queen Anne said, sensing that there was something afoot, and taking one of the four armchairs near the fireplace. Constance took the seat beside the Queen. Her dress was thick to keep the winter chill out, but it could not hide the swell of her belly. Treville caught himself looking at the pregnant dome for a moment longer than was proper before clearing his throat and looking up at the two women in his company.

"I received news from the front," he said, addressing them both. He looked directly at the Queen for a moment and he conveyed to her with a look the impact of what he was about to say. If there was any doubt in the Queen's mind, it cleared when Treville turned his full attention to Constance.

"There was a letter from Athos," Treville said. Queen Anne reached across and gripped Constance's hand tightly. "He conveyed to me the regrettable news that d'Artagnan died during the December month. I'm so sorry that I am only now being able to tell this news to you now. I'm so sorry Constance. I'm so sorry."

Treville's words of apology became quieter and quieter as Constance let out a loud sob only an instant after the shock wore off. She gasped and made an odd movement with her mouth, as if she were trying to breathe in air and couldn't managed it, and then Anne was out of her seat and pulling Constance up also and pulling her friend in towards her and embracing her tightly.

Treville also stood awkwardly, feeling as if he should no longer be there, as if he were prying on a private scene.

With Constance's face tucked away from sight, though her crying still faintly audible, Treville addressed the Queen, who likewise had tears in her eyes.

"Athos left this letter for Constance," Treville told the Queen. "I'll leave you your privacy."

"Thank you Armand," Anne said softly.

Treville offered a sad smile and placed the envelope addressed to Constance on the table. He gave a small bow and then left the room as if it were on fire.

When he closed the doors behind him, shutting away the grief and pain, he didn't return to his office, but instead wondered the corridors aimlessly as he tried to clear his head.

 _d'Artagnan is dead._

 _It is with great regret that I must tell you that d'Artagnan is dead._

 _d'Artagnan is dead._

 _dead._

 _dead._

Athos' words circled around inside his head relentlessly.

 _d'Artagnan is dead._

D'Artagnan… the inseparables… Constance…

He tried to imagine Athos writing those letters… tried to picture it in his head.

And it was now, more than any time previously since taking his new post, that he wished he could be back with his men, for he still very much considered them his men.

His sorrow over d'Artagnan and his worry over Athos were only relieved – slightly – with the knowledge that at least Athos also had Porthos and Aramis by his side. And it was this thought alone that enabled him to put the matter to rest (as much as one is able in these kinds of circumstances) and go back to what was left of his day's work.

/\/\/\/\

 ** _One month previous…_**

Aramis watched his friend via the glow of the dying embers of the fire as he scrunched up yet another piece of paper.

"You're aware that's rationed, right?" the marksman tried to joke.

Athos offered nothing but a glare in Aramis' direction.

Aramis lent back and sighed. Athos made no move to respond.

The two men continued on in silence as Athos took up another piece of paper and began again. About twenty minutes later he growled in frustration and screwed the paper up once more, tossing it into the nearby flames.

"Athos…"

"Do you want to bloody write it?" Athos demanded angrily. "I've got to tell… I've got to tell Constance that d'Artagnan is dead… that…"

The angry spiel petered out and the Captain stood and snatched up the bottle of wine, striding to the opposite end of the tent. Aramis, for his part, remained seated, and watched his friend's agitated movements.

"I know it's not easy, Athos," Aramis sighed. "But he would have wanted it to be you."

"Given that it may have been my decision that got him killed by the pure fact that we left him behind, I'm not so sure!" Athos grumbled.

"You had to make a difficult decision, one that reflected your position of command," Aramis reasoned. "Out of all of us, d'Artagnan I think understood that the most."

"And he's also not here to tell me so," Athos pointed out irritably.

There was pregnant pause that seemed to swallow up the air between them.

"He's dead because of me," Athos said.

"He died because we're at war," Aramis said. "Not because of you."

"Well if I count the four of us brothers, one is dead, one thinks I'm blameless, and the other two know I am entirely at fault, so how about you stop your sentiments," Athos grumbled.

"Porthos will come around," Aramis tried to reach through to his friend.

"Porthos shouldn't come around," Athos responded stoutly. He moved back to the desk, sat down, and pulled out another piece of paper.

"Athos…"

"Not now Aramis," Athos pleaded. "Not now."

The marksman looked at his friend sadly and then finally, regrettably, turned to leave the tent. It had been a difficult week since leaving the camp. Porthos had refused to speak to Athos unless the demands of the campaign required it. Athos had brooded and had receded within himself as he forced the performance of Captain to take over, as if he could no longer cope with his own self. Aramis, for his part, was trying to mediate between his two brothers, but he also felt the pain of loss, and sometimes didn't know if he did or didn't blame Athos, a thought he wouldn't let himself think too loudly.

Striding out into the chilled air, he tried to locate Porthos and, failing that, went to the infirmary tent where he at least felt he was doing a little good… As always, practicing medicine was his best distraction.

/\/\/\/\

D'Artagnan shivered.

Stripped of his jacket, his only protection against the cold and damp was his thin shirt and breeches, the latter of which were torn. They're treated his leg, and splinted and bound it, and it resonated with a distinctively painful throb that d'Artagnan couldn't shift.

He coughed, and the sound echoed around the cold, dark cell that was now his home. A shackle was locked around his right, uninjured ankle, and the skin had been rubbed raw from his initial attempts of trying to get loose.

By his calculations he'd been here maybe a week or so. Very little light got into his cell so it was hard to tell, and he had spent the first few days in a delirious feverish state. Since recovering his initial ailment he had been dragged out for questioning a few times, to which he had remained stoutly silent. A few punches had been thrown, but as yet there had been no real severe damage done. He could only wait to see it that changed in time.

He was resolute in keeping his silence, but he also knew there would be no rescue.

He hadn't realised immediately, but he'd had a lot of time to think in his cell, and he knew, now, that there was no one coming for him… that they would think him dead. He knew that a forward marching campaign couldn't stop long to search for one missing man. And worse still… he knew that the decision would have been Athos'… and that his mentor and brother would torture himself for the decision he had been duty-bound to make.

He smiled a bittersweet smile as his thoughts drifted to his brother, only to drop it abruptly as the door to his cell opened. Schooling his features he emptied his mind and tried to ready himself for what came next.


	8. Chapter 8

**AN/ So there's been a bit of a time jump... d'Artagnan is now into month 4 of captivity. Rest assured he will eventually be rescued... but war is never quick and easy...**

 **Also - I'm afraid updates have been / are going to be a bit less frequent (every few days or so). I'm insanely busy, stressed, and exhausted right now, which is never the best combination, so finding time to post isn't always easy. I'll do my best to get chapters to you as often as possible though. Thank you for all your support while reading this!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 _April_

Time passed slowly when you had no-one to speak to.

At first, d'Artagnan had tried to keep track of the days, or at the very least, the weeks. But as time went on his quiet moments were filled with a stupor of pain, unconsciousness, deep pangs of hunger, and the complete and utter desolation that resulted from the knowledge that he was never going to leave this place.

His less quiet moments were filled, paradoxically, strangely, with complete silence… at least on his part.

In the beginning, the questions had been inane and simple. They'd been asked with relative pleasantness. His leg had been given some time to recover, and the bruises he received were minor.

But as time warred on and he remained stubbornly silent, the Captain in charge of the keep became increasingly frustrated. The beatings had picked up pace, the attacks became more brutal. He had kept his silence and watched the behaviour of his guards and questioners as they became more twitchy.

If d'Artagnan was a guessing man, he'd have believed the Spanish weren't doing well. The questions he was getting seemed to imply so also.

Occasionally he broke his silence to bark a laugh or offer a drab piece of sarcasm. The payment for such behaviour was normally quite painful, but it stopped him from completely devolving into madness… it kept a little part of his personality still present.

Maybe two months after he'd been imprisoned he found himself stuck in his cell without food for a number of days. He had, occasionally, been left to his own devices for a day or two at a time. He was fed, but more recently there had been less food and less often. His muscles were starting to lose their heft and his body was starting to drop in weight. He was aware of the deterioration, but it became particularly noticeable in the absence of food for longer than the two day period.

When the door to his cell finally did open, he was sunken in the corner, his legs outstretched, his energy completely faded. He looked up somewhat hopefully, and squinted, only to pull back in shock when he recognised the face as belonging to the soldier that had attacked him during the initial ambush, and who had found him and brought him to the keep.

Since then their paths hadn't crossed.

The Spaniard sauntered towards d'Artagnan and crouched down in front of where the Gascon was slumped.

"Your men just breached the line at the Rio Ebra River," the Spaniard growled in passable French.

D'Artagnan perked up at the news. It was the first piece of information he'd received about what was happening outside of the keep since his arrival, and the act of knowing felt so good that he could almost taste it on his mouth.

"You hear me, swine?" the Spaniard backslapped him.

D'Artagnan spluttered and coughed. He felt dizzy from the fast motion his head had been forced to partake in.

"Best news I've heard in weeks," he replied with as cocky a smile as he could manage.

The Spaniard spat in his face.

"I am taking over your interrogation," the Spaniard informed him.

D'Artagnan didn't respond, but wiped the spittle from his face as best as he could manage with a shaky, dirt coated arm.

The Spaniard stood and glared down at him.

"I feel you should understand the true ramifications of this change," the Spaniard said.

"Such large words for someone with such a small brain," d'Artagnan replied. It was childish, he knew, but falling back on such adages of sarcasm, cockiness, and jest were the only ways he could think to keep his spirit high.

The Spaniard appeared not to appreciate the comment and responded with a heavy stomping kick, directed at the Gascon's half-healed leg.

The bone crunched. The shift in the leg, the shattering of only half-knitted bones rattled through his body. And d'Artagnan howled. His vision went white for an instant, and he forgot how to breathe as his body became consumed with the raging fire of white hot pain.

Faintly in the back of his mind, he heard the Spaniard laughing, but all he had the energy to focus on in that exact moment was the act of staying conscious, one that he barely won, and, by the time he had the ability to re-open his eyes, which he had slammed shut in his pain, the cell door had shut.

D'Artagnan breathed a deeply as he dared, the sound whistling as he hummed in the stead of screaming, tears prickling his eyes.

Finally, he managed to pull himself out of the pain-filled stupor and had groaned as he inspected the damage… the partially shattered bone that had slowly been mending, was now completely shattered. He could feel it moving under the skin. He stared at his leg almost uncomprehending and then his hiccupped – it was almost a laugh really.

"Well now I'm fucked," he said as he slumped back against the wall and giggled half-hysterically.

Now… two months on, Ramiro – his chief interrogator – and himself had become very well acquainted with one another… insofar that Ramiro never expected d'Artagnan to speak, and d'Artagnan knew to expect an inordinate amount of pain for his failure to respond to Ramiro's questions.

Whereas his leg had received treatment when he first arrived, none had been forthcoming after Ramiro had re-broken his bones. He'd done his best to re-splint it, but he'd had limited tools to hand, and it was a hash job. His leg had made little to no recovery and he would find himself dragged to and from his cell for interrogations. The action itself sparked pain, as it would cause his leg to get knocked about and strained as he was pulled along.

Ramiro's tactics were brutal in other ways: the time spent between food and drink being provided was getting longer, the beatings more brutal.

Twice now d'Artagnan had been stabbed, albeit shallowly, during episodes which had really riled Ramiro, and his arm had also been dragged out of its socket and put back in… just so Ramiro could hear him scream… or he suspected this was the reason.

He was also given less alone time… food may be less forthcoming, but he received frequent visits from the guards, who typically doled out a few kicks and punches. It wouldn't have been so bad, except that sleep became extremely lacking and never restful…

He had reached a new level of hell… one he could see no end of.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN/ The story's in May now, which means it's been 5 months since The Inseparables lost d'Artagnan (although we're only a few chapters away from his being found). Happy Easter!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 _May_

"You have got to start talking to him again," Aramis said for felt to be the umpteenth time.

Porthos ignored him and continued looking up ahead as they rode side by side. The campaign was moving slowly but surely, and had been for months, but there was still discord between Porthos and Athos.

"Porthos, he's torturing himself enough as it is," Aramis pleaded with his friend.

Porthos threw a disgusted glare in Aramis' direction.

"Porthos…"

"How many times do I have to spell it out?" Porthos growled. "He left d'Artagnan behind."

Aramis stared at his friend and then heaved a sigh.

"He had to make a decision as Captain," he began to explain, and then stopped. "Look, you know what, I'm not doing this again. I've tried to reason with you enough times, and I'm sick of your inability to forget the loss of one brother to see the pain of another."

Aramis' voice became increasingly angry as he continued in his tirade, and when he finished he pushed his horse further along the column. Porthos watched him go and swore under his breath.

He'd let it go on too long. But that was the problem… even though Porthos had since come to terms with what had happened, and had even accepted the decision that Athos had made, he had let the silence go on too long, and now he couldn't break it. It wasn't embarrassment that stayed his tongue, but rather the fact that blaming Athos – and this made it all the worse – distracted him from the grief of having lost d'Artagnan. It was a selfish reason, but the longer it went on, the harder Porthos was finding it to let go.

Aramis had been there for both his brothers, but Porthos could tell that Aramis' anger about the situation had long ago dissipated, and he was, in fact, becoming increasingly furious with Porthos' stubborn silence.

Porthos sighed and straightened his shoulders.

"Sort it out," he muttered to himself irritably. "You bloody fool."

/\/\/\/\/\

Two days later, the men in their company split up to take out three strategic outposts. Athos took the right flank, and assigned Porthos to take the left flank, while Aramis, however begrudgingly, took his place in the secondary defence: as marksman and medic, his skills were more useful at the back of the fight and not in the middle of the fray.

As the outer flanks rode off, Porthos clasped Aramis' hand tightly before departing.

He then began to ride off wordlessly.

As they embarked down the road, Porthos caught Athos' eye and they looked at one another for a long moment. Porthos nearly raised his hand in what would probably have been his first openly friendly gesture towards Athos in months, but his Captain broke his gaze, and Porthos found himself staring rather foolishly after him, before he began to notice himself being left behind by his company.

The hamlet that Porthos and his company sieged was well fortified. There were no civilians, and it became clear almost immediately that the entire place was only occupied by soldiers. The Spaniards had obviously realised the strategic advantage of the location.

It was a hard fight, and one that left men dead on both sides.

Porthos survived a near miss, turning to see the flicker of a musket-ball pass through the air where his head had been moments before. The report of the weapon firing would ring in his ears for many hours later.

At the worst possible time Porthos found himself distracted by the other near miss he had experienced that day: the possible chance to re-establish a relationship with Athos.

The thought warred on him, and he found himself getting increasingly frustrated at the distraction it caused, but he maintained his focus well enough, fought hard, and won his battles. In the end, the French laid claim to the hamlet, and the surviving Spaniard soldiers were taken prisoner. Porthos left a reasonable number of men behind to defend the hamlet, and then rode to the command point that he hoped would have been set up near the centre of the three hamlets.

As he came upon the site he beamed at the meaning it implied: that the rest of the company had been successful and he picked up pace on his approach. As he and the rest of his detachment arrived, they quickly mingled, to deliver reports, check on fellow soldiers, and locate a celebratory drink.

"Porthos!" one of the veteran soldiers called across to him. "You're wanted in the infirmary!"

Instantly the smile vanished.

Porthos halted only long enough for the words to make sense to him, and then he was striding, and then running, towards the medics' tent.

Stepping inside he looked around anxiously. One of the doctors recognised him and pointed him towards the corner, where a curtain had been draped around one of the beds.

Lurching forward, Porthos found himself coming to a stop at the end of the bed, wherein a slightly disorientated and irritable Aramis was trying to get up, while Athos was trying to gently lever him back onto the bed.

"Stay put!" growled Athos in a frustrated tone.

"I am fine, Athos," Aramis loudly responded. "I barely have a headache!"

"You have a concussion and are half deaf!" Athos shouted back in irritation.

Porthos watched the scene unfold with a sense of stupefaction.

At this point, Aramis finally noticed his presence and grinned at him.

"Porthos!" he shouted. "You're okay!"

Beside him, Athos winced, and looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"Better than you it would appear," Porthos responded wryly before looking at Athos. "What happened to him?"

At first the question was met with only silence, as Athos stared at Porthos with a look of confusion. It took Porthos a moment to realise that this was the first time he'd directly spoken to Athos since the night Athos had ordered them to move the campaign forward all those months ago.

"We thought the area was clear and he came in to treat the wounded," Athos finally spoke. "There was some unexploded gunpowder nearby that then… exploded. He was a little close. Hit his head. His ears are ringing, but his self-assessment – and the doctor's – is that he'll make a full recovery."

Porthos nodded at the information and then looked critically at Aramis, who was watching the pair with rapt attention with his head tilted to one side.

"What will it take for you to stay in bed?" Porthos asked him.

Aramis looked at him friend critically and comically screwed up his face in thought. Apparently the concussion had made him fall into a semi-drunken state.

"You and Athos need to talk," he finally said.

Porthos stared at his friend. Aramis, for his part raised an eyebrow as if to say "your move." Clearly the marksman wasn't so out of it as Porthos had believed.

"Done," Porthos said. "On the condition that you don't leave this bed until tomorrow morning."

"Deal," Aramis grinned back, and then slumped into the bed. "See you both tomorrow morning."

Both Athos and Porthos watched their brother hesitantly, but eventually, as Aramis appeared to nod off, Porthos felt assured that he would stay put and made to leave.

Athos didn't move.

"You coming?" Porthos called to him.

Athos startled, but followed Porthos slowly out of the tent. Porthos led him through the camp, until he located Athos' tent, which he ducked inside and scrounged two cups and a bottle of red.

He poured a liberal dose for each of them and then sat down. Athos stood for a short while and then tentatively sat down opposite Porthos.

"So I've been an idiot," Porthos broke the silence. "I let the silence get away with me. I wouldn't… I was punishing you and it felt bloody good, and I'm sorry, because it's not fair on you, and I thought for a moment that it might have been you in that bed today, and I don't want to live with that kind of regret."

The outpouring of words tumbled forth the moment Porthos let them. Athos seemed quite surprised by them and didn't respond for a short while as he mulled them over.

"I live with regret every day," Athos finally said. "I regret sending d'Artagnan out with the advance party. I regret not waiting to find his body after… I also regret the deaths of the other hundred or so men that have occurred under my command… I'm sorry. I regret so many things, but most all I regret that being Captain makes me responsible for all the losses."

Porthos stared at Athos and felt an increasing feeling of anger towards himself for his stubbornness and stupidity.

"You're a bloody good Captain," Porthos said, knocking his drink back. He then looked and met Athos' eyes directly as he spoke his next words. "You're a good brother too."


	10. Chapter 10

**AN/ A lot of angst in this chapter... but in the next chapter we will come to the moment you've all be waiting for!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 _August_

D'Artagnan was barely aware. He wasn't living. He wasn't even surviving. He merely existed… a hollowed out shell of skin and bone lost in the bowels of the Keep.

With time, even Ramiro had lost interest. The war had moved so far forward that there was no valuable information for him to give, but even brutal Spaniards don't murder their prisoners of war, so he was left alone in the dark, and fed and watered just enough to keep him breathing.

His leg had never properly mended. Half-healed, the shattered bones and knitted painfully and incorrectly, and the throbbing pain from his left limb was his only constant companion… he'd been without decent nourishment for so long that he was no longer plagued by hunger pangs. In the back of his mind, somewhere deep within its recesses, this concerned him, but he didn't have the energy to think that hard, nor to move.

He had devolved into a catatonic state, the only way his brain could handle the complete and utter isolation and unending imprisonment without meaningful contact. Occasionally his thoughts would drift to Constance, to his brothers and he felt such an overwhelming feeling of loss and regret that he had to shut that part of consciousness off too.

All he wanted was for this to end, and he didn't care how.

/\/\/\/\

Etienne rode into camp feeling as if he was coming home, even if he was in the middle of Spanish territory. Truth be told, he'd spent longer in Paris than he'd needed, to recover from his injuries, but Treville had asked him to train up the next round of volunteers before returning to the front. It was an arduous task, but he'd done it dutifully and well, and now he was simply pleased to be back with his brothers at the front.

He was greeted with smiles, greetings, and handshakes as he first dispatched of his horse with the squire at the stables and then went off in search of the Captain.

The place was crowded. As the campaign got deeper into Spanish territory, the men felt less scattered as they had in the earlier days of their march over the border, and Etienne gained comfort from the proximity of so many people.

Finally locating the tent he was after, he shouted out and waited for an affirmative reply. Ducking inside he found Athos sitting at his desk with Aramis and Porthos sitting nearby. The marksman was cleaning his weapons. Porthos appeared to be waking from a light doze. It felt somewhat comforting and familiar to see the Inseparables going about their business together, but there was a marked absence and Etienne winced ever so slightly in remembrance of the brother they had all lost.

"Etienne!" Aramis proclaimed from where he sat. He placed his weapon down and stepped forward to grip the fellow musketeer's hand, with Porthos following suit a few moments later.

"I trust you are in good health?" Athos asked, as he, too stood. A small smile graced his lips at the return of his fellow soldier, although it was obvious that with Etienne came the painful reminder of their loss of d'Artagnan… and Etienne knew he wasn't go make the conversation any easier.

"I'm completely recovered," Etienne replied with a smile. "A clean bill of health was given by the doctors at home."

Aramis looked as if he wanted to ask more about his recovery, but stayed his queries.

"You have news?" Athos asked.

"Yes," Etienne retrieved a pile of letters and files bound together by some rough twine. "These are from Treville. Orders and the like. He put them into my hands the day I departed Paris."

"Much thanks," Athos said as he took the papers and placed them on his desk.

There was a momentary lull in the room.

"There is another letter I have for you Athos, and some news to accompany it," Etienne said hesitantly.

"Yes?"

Etienne paused, palming the letter with sweaty hands.

"Constance asked if I would deliver this to you," he finally said, holding the letter out.

Athos stared at the paper, uncomprehending for a short moment, and then reached out and took it.

"I don't know anything of its contents," Etienne added. "But there is some… good and sorrowful news to deliver also."

Athos didn't speak, but merely looked up at Etienne and waited.

"What is it Etienne?" Aramis asked into the dreaded quiet.

"I left Paris about three weeks ago." Etienne said slowly. "So I saw them before I left, when she gave me the letter."

"Them?" Athos asked hoarsely.

Etienne winced a little.

"Constance and the babe," Etienne replied. "He's about a month old… well two now, I guess. She named him Charles, after his father."

The silence rang loudly within the tent.

Athos felt as if he's been punched. Aramis sat down with a heavy thud as the news finally reached him. They felt the grief come back afresh.

"Did he now?" Porthos asked. "I… he never said anything. Did he know he was to be a father?"

Etienne shook his head to which Athos turned and made to kick the leg of his chair, only to miss.

"As I understand it, Constance had intended to send him a letter once she was sure that there would be no early complications," Etienne explained sadly. "Unfortunately, the bad news arrived before that point in time arrived."

"He never knew he was a father," Aramis whispered quietly. It was strange. Out of the three of them, Aramis had coped the most easily following the loss of d'Artagnan, even if it was because he was mediating between the two fools he called his friends, but the idea of d'Artagnan never knowing of his child hurt him more deeply than he ever could have imagined… opening old wounds of his grief for his friend, but also the pain shared over his own illegitimate child.

Porthos seemed to realise the ramifications the news bore for Aramis, because he moved to place a sturdy hand on his brother's shoulder.

"We will drink a toast," Athos announced. "And then I will review the letters and papers in private."

Porthos looked as if he wished to protest at this last piece of news, but didn't say anything.

Athos pulled out four cups and poured a liberal dose of dark liquid into each one. He passed them around the group and each soldier gripped his solidly.

"To d'Artagnan," Etienne prompted.

"To Constance and Charles," Aramis added.

There was a lull before Athos lifted his cup.

"To Etienne's good health and return," he said. Etienne looked surprised, but saw that the words were genuinely meant.

Porthos looked to the floor and then up at each one of his fellow musketeers.

"To brothers," he finally said.

/\/\/\/\

That evening Athos drank irresponsibly for the first time since they had lost d'Artagnan. Constance's letter was nothing but gracious and forgiving. It seemed she understood his decision more than even he did.

Athos emptied the bottle and sank down into a drink-fuelled stupor. Constance forgave him. Aramis did. Even Porthos, who had kept his silence for so long had forgiven him… But Athos, for all his performance made in the company of his brothers, was yet to forgive himself.


	11. Chapter 11

**AN/ It's finally here, the moment you've all been waiting for...**

 **Thank you to everyone for your continued support (follows, faves, reviews, etc.) - you're all awesome. I hope this moment lives up to your expectations, and that you'll all hang around for the recovery/comfort that is to come next.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

 _September_

Summer was beginning to lose its grip, and as the men rode down the road, they began to feel the first tendrils of autumn's cooler air blow by.

They were a company of twenty men, with Porthos, Aramis, and Etienne leading the party. It is the first time since the campaign began nearly a year ago that Athos has been left completely separated from his closest brothers, something that both Aramis and Porthos are very much aware of, but the reason for their journey meant that it was one that they must make.

The dispatches that Etienne had delivered upon his return had included the instructions for some of the keeps and hamlets, that had been left alone in favour of speed in the early stages of the campaign, to be re-visited so as to clear the rear flank of the advancing army, and to stop a barrier being formed between the French soldiers and their home.

It hadn't taken Athos long to decide on what course of action to take.

The twenty men headed for a keep that was under the control of Major Gorane. The keep was very near where the ambush had occurred in the December and so Athos had decided that Porthos, Aramis, and Etienne could use to opportunity to also search for d'Artagnan's body, so that he may finally be put to rest with the honour and respect that he so duly deserved.

With heavy hearts and determined minds, the men had set out to complete their dual mission. When Etienne declared that he recognised their location, and Aramis pointed out the familiar shaped boulder and tree formation where they had discovered Etienne, the news was met with both relief and dread.

It was decided that they would spend the afternoon searching the area and then would move on to the keep the next day. If they were unsuccessful with their search they would return once the keep had been secured to try one more time.

Porthos hadn't known what he expected… a sign pointing him the way to d'Artagnan's body, or a cross marked on the ground… but he found nothing. When he returned, he was disappointed to find that no-one had had any luck.

The evening was morose and the men sat around the campfires in a subdued quiet.

"It's possible that he got further than we thought, or that he was buried by another passer-by," Aramis said softly.

"Twenty of us looking and we didn't find even a footprint," Porthos grumbled, very clearly upset.

"It's been over nine months Porthos," Aramis tried to reason.

Porthos looked up at his friend and sighed.

"I know," he said. "I just… I wanted… I wanted to find him. I feel like… without a body… it feels like we abandoned him."

Aramis didn't respond, because ultimately, both men knew that that was exactly what they had done. The war had necessitated it, but it didn't really make them feel better.

"Sometimes… I forget what he looked like," Porthos said softly. "I guess I just wanted to see him, to… to confirm he was dead."

Porthos didn't often cry, but he didn't stop the tears from falling. Aramis reached an arm around his brothers back and held him tight, his own tears also spiking in his eyes.

They said no words. There were none that needed saying, they just sat, in the quiet evening and gave themselves the time they needed to remember their younger brother and grieve.

"We'll win this war," Aramis finally broke the silence. "And then we'll go back to Paris and do our jobs, and do right by Constance and his boy. We'll teach little Charles Junior everything d'Artagnan would _and_ wouldn't want him learning."

Porthos huffed a laugh.

"What do you think d'Artagnan would say if he knew I was planning to teach the sprite to run over the Parisian roofs when he's old enough?"

"I think d'Artagnan would be okay with it," Aramis said, smiling. "'Course, he'd also tell you to watch out for Constance's fist when she inevitably found out."

Porthos chuckled quietly and stood up.

"Better win this war then," Porthos said, striding off to relieve the guard duty.

/\/\/\/\/\

The keep was heavily fortified and occupied with several well-trained soldiers.

The evening after Porthos and Aramis had talked, the small company of musketeers launched a surprise attack, creeping over the wall and through the water tunnel by the river. They were already deep within the walls and had taken out several soldiers between them before the alarm was sounded.

At some point during the assault Porthos lost track of Aramis, but found his way to what looked like the kitchens, where he found himself engaged with a skilled, brutish fighter with green eyes and a permanently aggressive look on his face. The man fought wildly, but was skilled with his weapon, and Porthos found himself losing ground momentarily, until Etienne appeared at the Spaniard's back and struck him down.

Both musketeer's nodded at one another and then separated as they once more spread out within the walls.

Porthos climbed back up to the higher floors to find Aramis standing in the food hall with the Major in custody, and a handful of other men.

"I think we've mostly cleared the place," Porthos informed him.

Aramis nodded when one of the younger soldiers in their company sprinted into the room, shouting for both of them.

"Etienne needs you downstairs now," he panted. He looked a little pale and scared. "Right now! In the basement level. You need to—"

"Okay, son, we're going," Aramis tried to calm him. "You stay here with Henri to guard the room."

Both Porthos and Aramis set off in search of the lower levels worriedly. Aramis had his hand of his dagger the entire trip down.

When they reached the corridor in question there were three musketeers standing in the corridor.

"What's going on?" Porthos asked as they walked towards the group.

"In here!" shouted Etienne from a room to the side. Both men ducked into the dank space, although a torch was being held up by one of the other musketeers in the room. The smell was overpowering: sweat, and blood, and urine. Porthos screwed his nose up as his eyes adjusted to the change in light. Then he heard Aramis swear and he finally comprehended what he was seeing.

Etienne was crouched over a body… a body that looked exactly like d'Artagnan… or a shell of what he had been.

Aramis was already on the ground, his hands running over their youngest brother while repeating his name again and again in some form of litany. Porthos let out a strange strangling sound as he, too, dropped to his knees.

Etienne moved out of the way to allow Porthos the space to get closer.

D'Artagnan's hair was a wild, straggly mess that fell across his face. Bloodstains and dirt streaked his skin… there wasn't a single part of him that was clean. His shirt was long gone, the skin on his torso revealed to be mottled and pasty beneath the dirt. Porthos swallowed convulsively at the sight of d'Artagnan's ribs jutting out through his skin, and as he reached for the man's hand, he realised that the wrist bone was equally evident against his wasted body.

He noticed Aramis moving down to d'Artagnan's lower body, who swear profusely at what he found. Etienne also swore when he saw the twisted leg… bruised, half-healed, badly scarred, and completely out of joint.

"They didn't try to mend it," Etienne whispered.

Comprehension settled over Porthos as he realised that the leg injury was from the ambush, not something sustained from his imprisonment.

"How bad?" Porthos asked Aramis.

"Bad. He's dehydrated, malnourished, he's got a chest infection, his leg… we need to get him out of here. I need to treat him, but not here."

Porthos surveyed the space once more and felt the cold creeping up his spine. His brother had been _here_ the whole time. A prisoner of war, wounded, tortured, and they'd… they'd thought him dead. The entire world felt as if it had shifted on its axis.

"Let's find a room upstairs," Porthos said finally. He reached down and picked d'Artagnan up in his arms. The man didn't even stir. Porthos found himself overwhelmed at how light his brother felt in his arms, and he nearly broke down there and then, but instead he pulled d'Artagnan close to his chest and strode out of the room with Etienne leading, and Aramis following. As they passed the other musketeer's on their way, not a word was spoken as they bowed their heads… almost as if Porthos was carrying a dead man.


	12. Chapter 12

**AN/ Sorry for the delay - I was meaning to post yesterday but was ill so didn't manage. Anyway... lots of brotherly love and comfort to be had here. Enjoy!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

The following morning, order had been restored throughout. Those Spaniards still living were kept locked under guard in the food hall, the dead had been moved downstairs until they could be dealt with, and the musketeers had set a perimeter.

In a room decorated liberally and expensively, Porthos and Aramis cared for their brother, and tried to deal with the new wave of guilt that flowed over them, alongside the shock and relief about finding their brother alive after all this time. Lying in a four-poster bed, d'Artagnan had slept soundly through the night, although Aramis expected this was more to do with ill-health and exhaustion rather than comfort.

Between them, Aramis and Porthos had washed d'Artagnan, noting every jutting bone, the pale and sallow skin, and the bruises and scratches that mottled his body. There were also scars showing previous signs of injury that hadn't been treated properly. Aramis had also noted some tenderness around both of d'Artagnan's shoulders.

The damaged leg, which was his biggest concern, was not something that could immediately be fixed or, Aramis dreaded to think, would probably never be wholly fixed. With the bones fused incorrectly, it had to be causing an inordinate amount of pain, but short of re-breaking them right there and then, there was no quick fix, and so he bound it tightly and placed a warm compress on it in the hope of relieving the pain.

After washing and treating d'Artagnan as well as they could, and cutting his ragged and knotty hair back to just above his shoulders, they dressed him in loose trousers and a shirt located in one of drawers of the room they now occupied, and settling him onto the bed.

Throughout all of this, he had barely stirred, and certainly not lucidly so.

Aramis had managed to get a bit of broth down his throat, but it was a difficult manoeuvre.

But as morning arrived, d'Artagnan began to stir on his own account. Instantly both Porthos and Aramis were at his side.

"Come on d'Art," called Porthos. "Come on back to us." There were tears in his eyes as he spoke.

Gently but firmly, Aramis took a hold of d'Artagnan's hand in his.

"Wake up d'Artagnan," Aramis pleaded.

Slowly but surely, d'Artagnan's eyes opened and he blinked hazily. It was clear that he found the brightness of the room disorientating as he slammed his eyes back shut, and Porthos moved to quickly shut the curtains.

"It's alright d'Artagnan," Aramis coaxed. "It's not a bright now."

D'Artagnan once more opened his eyes and Aramis saw that there were tears there. He tried to speak but his voice was hoarse and it came out as a barely distinguishable croak.

"We're here, we have you," Aramis reassured. "You're alive and… you're alive and we have you. You're going back to Paris. You're safe now. You're safe."

D'Artagnan tried to lever himself up, but was too weak to manage it. Porthos guiding him to sit upright in the bed, and then wrapped him in his huge arms in a hug that the older musketeer was reluctant to stop. For his part, d'Artagnan merely let himself be held. His eyes were almost as large as saucepans, as if he were a child seeing snow for the first time.

Once levered upright, the tickle that had been stuck in his throat for weeks let itself be known and he found himself giving out a hacking cough that left him trembling. The persistent throbbing soreness had set in months ago and refused to abate… it had been lingering for so long that d'Artagnan couldn't recall what it felt like to not feel it. The cold too… and the hard stone beneath him, pressing into his jutting bones with no relief.

Wrapped in the arms of Porthos – _Porthos_ – he tried to take in the sudden changes… he was settled on something soft, he was warm for the first time in months, and while the pain was still ever-present, he was touching someone… or rather, someone was holding him… not cruelly, not tightly, but firmly. Porthos was warm, his presence reassuring, just the feeling of inundated human interaction was enough to overwhelm him.

When the coughing had subsided and the wheezing had quietened, though not completely disappeared, he opened his mouth to speak but found he couldn't get the words to tumble off his tongue. His throat felt dry and he'd spent so long being resolutely silent under torture, or without any human conversation at all, that he seemed to have forgotten how to work his voice. He croaked an odd sounding sigh, and Porthos pulled back a little, though didn't remove his hand from d'Artagnan's shoulder. Aramis had also settled on the bed, on the opposite side.

"Don't try to talk just yet," Aramis said, appearing to understand d'Artagnan's dilemma. "Can you drink a little broth for me?"

D'Artagnan, whose eyes were still opened frightfully wide, nodded ever so slightly. His newly brushed hair fell into his face, and Porthos pushed it out of the way while Aramis gently guided a cup of warm broth into d'Artagnan's hands. The Gascon's hands shook, and Aramis found himself supporting the cup as d'Artagnan made to drink. He managed about three or four swallows before his face morphed into a sickly colour that had Aramis removing the cup and pushing a bowl into d'Artagnan's lap where he promptly threw up what he'd just tried to eat.

Porthos looked at Aramis with a startled and moderately frightened expression.

"It's okay," Aramis soothed, speaking to d'Artagnan, but offering an explanation to Porthos as he removed the bowl. "You're just unused to having food in your stomach. It may take a while to grow accustomed to it again."

D'Artagnan nodded and seemed to sink back into the pillows, despite Porthos' supporting hand. It was clear that he was incredibly weak and the dark shadows under his eyes told of his exhaustion levels.

D'Artagnan tried to speak again, and this time succeeded.

"Thank you," the words came out in a jagged croak that sounded as if d'Artagnan had been gargling glass, and it had all three men wincing at its sound.

"I'm sorry it took us so long to find you," said Aramis quietly.

"I'm so sorry d'Art," added Porthos, still not yet releasing the lad from his grip. "We're so sorry…"

"It's okay," d'Artagnan croaked out. There were tears in his eyes as he finally, truly realised that his brothers were _here_. "It's okay."

Porthos pulled him into a tight hug, which Aramis joined, and the three men remained together until d'Artagnan gasping sobs finally dissipated, and they felt his body sag as he fell asleep.

Carefully, Porthos lowered d'Artagnan back into the bed and pulled the covers up to keep him warm, as his skin still felt cold to touch.

"We'll need to let him sleep whenever he can, but also start getting him used to food a drink," said Aramis. "We'll start with only a spoonful or two of broth and odd sips of water until his body starts to re-adjust. He won't be travelling until that wheezing has subsided and he can stomach at least a small meal."

"We're to hold the keep, but we'll be expected back to the Front sooner rather than later," Porthos said. "Athos… oh God… Athos doesn't know. He still thinks…"

Aramis appeared startled by the mention of Athos' name as he suddenly realised that his friend still believed d'Artagnan to be dead.

"I'll speak with Etienne," Aramis said. "It's my hope that d'Artagnan will revive, physically at least, rather quickly."

Porthos nodded.

"Will you stay with him awhile?" Aramis asked. "I'll go update the others and then get a few hours kip before relieving you."

"Sleep as long as you need," Porthos said.

"You're going to have to let go of him eventually," Aramis said softly, noting that Porthos still rested a hand on d'Artagnan's arm.

"Not just yet though," Porthos replied.

Aramis huffed a sigh and then dipped his head in submission to Porthos' whims before stepping out of the room, leaving Porthos to guard over their sleeping brother.


	13. Chapter 13

**AN/ More comfort to be had in this chapter. Actually, most of the upcoming chapters are comfort ones. Stick around - it's going to be emotional.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

A week later, Porthos and Aramis sat in d'Artagnan's room. The curtains were open and the room was much lighter now that d'Artagnan's eyes seemed to have adjusted to the change in environment. The Gascon was propped up in bed and after having eaten a small bit of broth and bread, a vast improvement on his earlier eating habits, was now lying in silence.

Porthos and Aramis looked across at one another anxiously. D'Artagnan had spent the first few days sleeping most of the day away, intermittently disturbed by fits of nightmares which he refused to talk about. In the last couple of days had been more wakeful, helped by his slow acclimatisation to food and drink, only to get lost in long bouts of silence.

They hadn't asked him much about his time in captivity, although Aramis had asked what kind of injuries he had sustained. Most were clear to see, and the leg was still clearly painful, but he had needed to know what he may have missed. For his own part d'Artagnan hadn't spoken unless prompted. Aramis believed that he was in shock, and had also, regretfully, decided to not yet tell d'Artagnan news of the war or of Constance until the lad seemed more aware of his surroundings.

"What month is it?" The question was sudden and startled both Aramis and Porthos from where they were sitting.

"Um… September," Porthos supplied.

"That's… nine months," d'Artagnan mused as if to himself. "It's been nine months hasn't it? I lost track… I…" He petered off and lulled back into silence for a long moment.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan asked. "I haven't seen him." For the most part, only Aramis and Porthos had been in his room, although Etienne had dropped in on occasion.

"He's well," Aramis said. "He's at the Front, so he doesn't yet know you're… he doesn't know we've found you."

Despite his tiredness and the spells of apparent catatonia, d'Artagnan now appeared more astute, as if he'd finally woken up. It was as if a switch had suddenly been flicked.

"What aren't you saying?" d'Artagnan asked Aramis.

"I don't know what you mean," Aramis said, although there nothing of his usual jovial demeanour contained within the words. In fact, they were rather stilted.

"You said he doesn't know you found me but… I've seen the way you and Porthos, even Etienne keep looking at me," d'Artagnan said. "And I've heard you talking about the mission to take the keep… you weren't here looking for me."

Aramis dropped his gaze and stared at the floor.

"We were looking for you d'Artagnan," Porthos said gravely. "But we believed we were looking for a body."

D'Artagnan didn't appear shocked by the news. In fact he nodded in comprehension.

"You thought I was dead," he said quietly.

"We couldn't find a trail of where you might have gone and with Etienne's description of your injuries and the cold season… we thought either one or the other would have finished you," Aramis explained.

"We did look, but…" Porthos couldn't finish the sentence. Instead he shrugged his shoulders.

"I understand," d'Artagnan said softly.

"I'm so sorry d'Art," said Porthos quietly. "If we had known…"

"It's fine," d'Artagnan said quietly.

There was a long silence that stretched across the room.

"It was Athos' decision to move on wasn't it?" d'Artagnan said.

"He didn't want to, but yes," Aramis confirmed.

"Must have sucked, being Captain, at that particular moment," d'Artagnan reflected.

"He hasn't forgiven himself," Porthos said. "He puts on a good show… but we can tell that he hasn't."

"Will me turning up alive make that better or worse do you think?" d'Artagnan asked.

He was met with silence, which was an answer unto itself. D'Artagnan sighed and settled back in his pillows.

"For what it's worth, you guys should forgive yourselves too," d'Artagnan said quietly.

Porthos and Aramis both looked at each other, somewhat flabbergasted, and then turned to look back at d'Artagnan. The Gascon had closed his eyes, but Aramis saw the first smile light up the lad's face since they'd found him in the cellar.

"You haven't changed," Aramis told d'Artagnan gently. "At least not in the ways that really matter."

D'Artagnan didn't open his eyes again, and as his breathing mellowed, he appeared to be sleeping, but Aramis believed that his brother had heard him.

/\/\/\/\

Another week later and Aramis deemed d'Artagnan to be fit for travel. It was decided that Aramis and Porthos would travel to Paris with d'Artagnan in a wagon, and Etienne would travel back to the Front with a contingent of four other riders. The rest of the men would remain to hold the Keep.

The wagon was padded out with layers of blankets and pillows taken from the Keep to keep d'Artagnan as comfortable as possible while they travelled. The back roads were much safer than they had been nine months ago, but both Aramis and Porthos were armed and Porthos had also placed two loaded pistols in the wagon should d'Artagnan have need for them, even though the Gascon doubted he'd have the energy to actually lift the weapon.

Their departure was uneventful, with Etienne's troupe joining them throughout the morning trek before breaking off to head to the Front. D'Artagnan had bourn the first stage of the journey stoically, and had even dozed intermittently, but Porthos and Aramis see the tension rolling off of him.

As evening rolled in, the two soldiers set up camp and then settled d'Artagnan near the fire. His leg was still strapped tightly, and Aramis was giving him regular drafts to keep the pain at bay. No one had really discussed how damaged the leg was, but d'Artagnan seemed to understand that it would not be an easy fix, and that there would be more to talk about it when they reached Paris.

"Are you alright Whelp?" Porthos asked.

"What?" d'Artagnan looked up from where he'd been staring at the flames. "Oh, fine."

"D'Artagnan…" Aramis coaxed.

For a long while d'Artagnan didn't say anything.

"I never thought I'd leave," he said finally. "I thought… I was dying… I thought one day I'd just… drift away… but I didn't… and… I just can't quite believe…"

"Believe it," Porthos said, placing himself in front of d'Artagnan and putting a hand on the lad's shoulder. "You're going home. To Paris. To Constance…"

Aramis saw Porthos pause and then also moved to join them.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said softly. "There's something that we need to tell you."

D'Artagnan looked up expectantly.

"First, regrettably, Constance also believes you dead."

D'Artagnan felt as if he'd been punched. He'd barely let himself think of Constance these last few months, for fear of losing all control, but she'd been in his thoughts since he'd first awoken with Aramis and Porthos by his side. He'd known that she would have thought him dead, but to hear the words said aloud…

"She'll be so happy to see you though," Porthos pointed out. "Just as we were. I plan to ride ahead once we reach Paris and fetch her as soon as I am able."

D'Artagnan nodded wordlessly.

"But there's something else you need to know," Aramis added. He paused. He was unable to get the words out.

"D'Artagnan," Porthos intervened. "D'Art, you have a son."

D'Artagnan's head shot up. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

"His name is Charles, she named him after you," Aramis said, finally finding _his_ tongue. "He'll be about three, maybe four months old now."

Still d'Artagnan didn't speak, but both his friends saw the tears pushing to the surface, and Aramis reached towards his younger brother and wrapped him in his arms.

"You're a father, d'Artagnan," he repeated the words. "And you're alive. You'll be able to be there for you son."

D'Artagnan didn't speak, but clung to his friend as tears streamed down his face. Finally, he broke away, and Aramis was gratified to see a small smile playing upon the Gascon's lips.

"Ready to leave now?" Aramis asked.

"I want to go home," d'Artagnan said in the most stubborn voice he'd used since they found him. Both Aramis and Porthos grinned.

"Your wish is our command," Porthos said heartily as he stood to collect more wood for the fire. "I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see our city again."

Aramis looked up to follow and Porthos' movements, and so he missed the flicker of doubt pass across d'Artagnan's face. When he turned, the Gascon had a smile back upon his face.


	14. Chapter 14

**AN/ Thank you everyone for your reviews! Ii have a feeling that a lot of you have been waiting avidly for this chapter, so please enjoy! :D**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

 _November_

Having seen the end of September in at the Keep with their extended stay, and with the slow speed of the wagon, it had turned November by the time the three weary soldiers finally reached Paris. It had been just over a year since they had departed their city, and so to set their eyes upon the streets and buildings brought a flutter to each man's heart.

Aramis sat at the front of the wagon, while Porthos rode alongside them. From his elevated position, Porthos was able to see d'Artagnan's face transform with a milieu of emotions as he attempted to comprehend just what it was that he was seeing before him… home. It was at once a totally open and completely guarded expression, a paradox that was only possible because d'Artagnan so desperately wanted to feel, and yet had spent so long in the recent months trying to forget what it was to feel.

Porthos watched his brother, and then looked up to catch Aramis' eye before riding off ahead towards the palace. Their plan was for Aramis to settle d'Artagnan at the garrison, while Porthos would speak with Treville and Constance.

It was odd that, despite his time away, Porthos could remember Paris perfectly. It had certainly changed; it was less busy, and there was a sombre atmosphere as was expected during the time of war, but as Porthos navigated the streets, he found himself effortlessly making his way to the palace, as if he had made the trip only yesterday.

When he reached the palace gates he was greeted by one of the few musketeers that had been charged to remain in Paris for the protection of the King. Matthew recognised Porthos instantly and approached with an expression of relief and concern in equal measure.

"It is so good to see you, my friend!" hailed Matthew as Porthos dismounted. "What brings you to Paris?"

"And you Matthew," the two men embraced. "I've arrived with some especially good news. Please, could you tell me of Cap… apologies, Minister Treville's whereabouts?"

"I'll have someone escort you to his office," Matthew said, beckoning a young lad to their position and relaying his instructions. "Please find me later, I would love to hear news of the Front." Porthos could detect the sound of yearning in his fellow musketeer's voice. While remaining in Paris was certainly a safer venture than travelling to the Front, remaining here was in fact rather difficult for most soldiers, especially when their brothers were out fighting a war.

"I'll see you at the garrison later," Porthos agreed, before following his young charge into the depths of the palace walls.

Once pointed towards the correct door, Porthos found himself pausing, hesitant for his uncertainty as to how the conversation should go. Steeling himself, he rapped on the door firmly.

"Enter!" Treville's voice echoed through the door, and Porthos felt himself stir to hear the man's voice after so long away. He pushed the door open and entered to watch Treville's expression change from one of mild irritation and expectation to complete and utter surprise.

"Porthos!" he finally found his voice. "What on earth…"

"Good afternoon Minister," Porthos greeted with a nervous but excited grin. "I… er… we… that is, Aramis and I, have had to make a short trip home to escort a wounded soldier here safely."

"Only one soldier?" Treville asked, confused.

"We were part of a team sent back to clear out some of the keeps still occupied by the Spanish near the border," Porthos explained.

Treville nodded, comprehending why the two of them would have made the journey as they did; he remembered sending the orders to Athos.

"There's more," Porthos said. "The wounded soldier… it's… it's d'Artagnan."

Treville's head shot up and stared at Porthos uncomprehendingly for a moment before standing.

"I received a report that d'Artagnan was dead," Treville finally said.

"We believed he was," Porthos said. "We all thought… we didn't expect to find him… and certainly not alive."

"I'm going to need a full report, from both you and d'Artagnan," Treville said.

"Of course," Porthos nodded. "We don't know much, but found him a prisoner at the Keep we sieged. He's got a long road ahead of him but, considering the alternative… I'll give you a full account later, but for the moment, I'd like to locate Constance. She should know her husband lives, and he's learnt of his son, so…"

"Of course," Treville agreed. "I'll summon both her and the Queen so we may speak with them."

Treville called a messenger to summon the Queen and Constance to the very same reading room that he had bourn them the earlier learned bad news, before walking there himself with Porthos in tow.

"Constance has been made the Dauphin's official governess," Treville told Porthos as they walked. "The Queen felt the position befitting given Constance's new role of motherhood, and it allowed her to take rooms in the palace, away from the garrison and to have her child with her at all times. Charles d'Artagnan shares the nursery of the Dauphin."

"The Queen in generous," Porthos remarked, not in the slightest bit surprised by the Queen's acts.

"The Queen considers Constance her friend," Treville replied. "Both are truly wonderful women. Stronger and cleverer than most men. Their bond could certainly compete with our brotherhood."

Porthos smiled broadly at the comment as they entered the reading room to discover the Queen and Constance already present. In Constance's arms was a swaddled child and, even from the doorway, Porthos could see the eyes of d'Artagnan looking back at him.

Both women expressed surprise at Porthos' appearance alongside Treville.

"Porthos!" the Queen exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"It is indeed, your Grace," Porthos agreed, bowing to the royal.

"How are you?" Queen asked.

"I am well," Porthos said. "I've made a short trip home with Aramis." At the mention of Aramis' name, the Queen's expression lightened significantly, having clearly gotten the answer she really wanted. Porthos had to force himself to contain his devilish grin.

"Why have you come to Paris, Porthos?" Constance asked, speaking for the first time.

Now Porthos hesitated, unsure of how to proceed.

"Porthos has some news for you Constance, if perhaps the Queen would be obliged to hold young Charles for a few moments," interjected Treville. Constance looked as if letting go of her son was the very last thing she wanted to do, but Queen Anne carefully coaxed her to release the child temporarily into her care.

"Constance," Porthos approached the woman, only to receive a resounding slap from her.

"Constance!" the Queen sounded mortified.

"It's alright your Grace," Porthos assured her. "I deserved that. And then some."

"You came back and he didn't," Constance said haughtily, the pain evident in her voice. "You were supposed to keep him safe."

"I know Constance, and I'm sorry. I truly am," Porthos said. "We failed him. We couldn't keep him safe, but we did bring him back."

Constance started at the news, taking a step away from Porthos as the grief clouded her face.

"No wait… I'm sorry Constance, there's… there's no way to make this explanation… there's… oh sod it all… d'Artagnan's alive. Constance, we brought d'Artagnan home alive."

The grief twisted into incredulity.

"What is this nonsense?" Anne interrupted, placing herself nearer her friend in a defensive motion.

"We believed d'Artagnan was dead, but we were sent back to take a Keep still held by the Spanish and found that he had been kept prisoner, and had been for some considerable time. He's in ill-health, but he is alive," Porthos managed to explain somewhat more coherently.

"Take me to him," Constance said quietly as she moved to extricate her son from the Queen. "Take me to my husband immediately."

There was no happiness in Constance's voice, only fear… a fear which, after so long grieving, did not dare to hope.

"This way," Treville beckoned. The Queen watched but didn't join them as Treville and Porthos guided Constance from the room. However, when the three arrived at the gates, they found the Queen had beaten them in arranging transport, as a carriage waited to escort them. The three stepped into the carriage and settled in for the short ride.

"He's really alive, isn't he?" Constance asked softly.

"He is, Constance," Porthos said. "I know you're in shock right now… but it won't take long."

"I don't know why I slapped you before… I'd already forgiven you… but seeing you and thinking he was… I wasn't really aware that I was doing what I did…" Constance rambled.

"You didn't do anything I hadn't wanted to do to myself a hundred times over," Porthos reassured her. "We all tried to convince ourselves that we didn't feel guilty but… well I think the guilt of knowing we could have found him sooner if we'd known he lived… I think I deserved slapping for that too."

"He'll forgive you," Constance said with simple conviction.

Porthos startled at the words, and he was reminded of the conversation that d'Artagnan had had with both Aramis and himself only a few weeks ago, when the man had just been coming back to lucidity.

The rest of the journey was taken in silence, except for the quiet mewling of the child that Constance clutched in her arms. When they finally arrived at the garrison there were only a few of the newest recruits about, and some of the more recently wounded sitting by the tables. There was an odd kind of reverence that had settled amongst the men… clearly they knew of d'Artagnan's revival.

"He's in your rooms Madame d'Artagnan," Serge announced clearly.

The pronouncement appeared to be all Constance needed to spur her into movement. And, as she all but sprinted towards the rooms she shared with her husband, it was clear that all doubt had rescinded.

She all but lost her grasp on the door handle, but managed to push it open, and stopped short at the sight of her husband lying in their bed, pale and gaunt, and horrifically thin and starved looking… but most certainly and irrevocably _alive_. The sob caught in her throat and she didn't quite remember travelling the last few steps to the bed, only to find herself wrapped in the thin and weak arms of her husband as he too cried upon the arrival of his wife.

"Constance," he whispered into her hair as he clutched at the fabrics of her dress and breathed in her scent and listened to the sound of her breathing in his ear.

When Porthos and Treville caught up, they found Aramis standing near the far wall, trying to be as non-intrusive as possible without actually leaving the room, while d'Artagnan and Constance were wrapped in a tight hug, their son bundled up between them.

The couple remained like that for some time, until finally Constance withdrew, only to reach her bundle towards d'Artagnan.

"Charles, I'd like you to meet you father," she said softly as if she was surprised to find herself speaking the words. "D'Artagnan, I'd like you to meet Charles… your son."

D'Artagnan sobbed and reached towards the babe. He made as if to hold him, but stopped short.

"I don't think… I don't think I'm strong enough to hold…"

"Of course you are," whispered Constance. "We'll do it together." Her voice cracked on the last word – together – but she shuffled forward, pulling herself onto the bed, nestled in the sheets and her skirts before wrapping her arm around her husband and propping him up while supporting his arms as she settled Charles in the crook of his arm.

"See," she said. "You've got this. We've got this."

D'Artagnan let fresh tears spike in his eyes as he nestled against the chest of his wife, and together they held their son against his chest, and for the first time since the ambush just under a year ago, he felt warm.


	15. Chapter 15

**AN/ An uncharacteristically short chapter today - partly filler, but hopefully satisfying in terms of its subject :) Thank you for everyone whose reviewed. I think I've responded to most, so sorry if I've missed you at all - it isn't deliberate! Also thanks to the guest reviews I can't respond to directly.**

 **Enjoy the chapter!**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

It was mid-November by the time Etienne finally arrived back at the camp where Athos was based. There was a distinct chill in the air, but the bustle of camp-live warmed him, and he felt relieved to finally find himself off the road after the long trek back. He departed from his small group of riders and anxiously set out in search of his Captain.

In truth, he'd been fidgety for days, his knees bouncing, his legs pacing, his hands clenching into fists whenever there was an idle moment… and there were plenty while riding a steady pace on horseback. Even the need to keep watch on his surroundings hadn't distracted him from his anxiety about the news he was due to deliver. In fact, he felt more nervous than he had when he'd arrived only a few months ago bearing news of Constance's and d'Artagnan's new-born son.

He reached the tent near the centre of the camp and ducked under the flap, without allowing himself to hesitate.

"Etienne!" proclaimed Athos as he sighted his friend's arrival from across his desk.

"Captain," Etienne greeted, pulling his hat from his head.

"How was your mission?" Athos asked, and then glancing behind Etienne to look for bodies he couldn't see. "Where are Porthos and Aramis?"

"They are well," Etienne was quick to reassure his Captain. "They are in Paris at the moment, and the mission was a success: the Keep was secured with no casualties from our side."

"That is good news," Athos said guardedly. "Paris?"

"Yes, they…" Etienne paused, unsure of how to deliver the news he so desperately wanted to share. "There is no easy way to say this Athos…"

"You found d'Artagnan?" Athos guessed, a look of grief shadowing his face.

Etienne winced, knowing that Athos expected a body to have been recovered.

"We… we found d'Artagnan alive," Etienne finally delivered the blow.

If Athos had been standing, he would have staggered from the weight of the news… from the weight of guilt that waved over him anew.

"Alive?" he breathed his question with an air of desperation.

"He was a prisoner at the Keep," Etienne tried to explain. "He was in ill-health when we found him, but had regained most of his faculties by the time he left for Paris with Aramis and Porthos escorting him."

"He's _alive_?"

"Yes, Athos," Etienne reassured his friend and Captain. "D'Artagnan is alive. He is living, and by now should have been reunited with his wife and met his son."

Athos let loose an odd sound that seemed as if he wanted to cry, but couldn't quite let himself. Etienne moved forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I left him behind," Athos all but whispered the words, aghast.

"We all thought him dead, Athos," Etienne said.

"But it was my decision," Athos defended his guilt. "I left him behind and he has been held prisoner for… for months without a single man looking for him! I left him behind Etienne. How could I—"

"He forgives you," Etienne interrupted him. "He forgives all of us, for that matter. He said so multiple times while he was recuperating at the Keep. He was very insistent of the matter."

"And have you forgiven yourself, Etienne?" Athos asked his comrade.

Etienne dipped his head and refrained from answering, telling Athos all he needed to know.

"You're a hypocrite," Athos said softly, and a brief smile graced his lips, as he appeared to calm.

He sat down at the fire, and beckoned for Etienne to join him.

"Tell me your full report," Athos instructed his brother-in-arms.

/\/\/\/\/\/\

 _January_

There had been a lull in the action at the Front. Both sides seemed stranded in a stalemate that was moving nowhere. The men stranded at the camp were getting frustrated with the situation, but at least while no one was moving, no one was dying either.

The cold of winter had truly settled in for the long haul and snow fell in dazzling spectacles that left the men praising its beauty and cursing its dampness and bone-penetrating chill.

When the letter arrived ordering Athos to return to Paris to meet with Minister Treville and report in person, he was at once filled with dread at the prospect of having to travel in the midst of winter, and relieved for the opportunity to finally get to see d'Artagnan. He couldn't help but suspect that Treville had orchestrated the visit exactly for that purpose.

Thus, when the time came, he left his Lieutenant at the helm, bid farewell to his men, and set out for the Parisian streets, and for his younger brother, both of whom he had not set eyes on in over a year.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN/ A fair bit of angst in this chapter... we finally get to see what d'Artagnan's really feeling. Next chapter is the much awaited reunion though :D**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

 _February_

His skin was not overly hot, but it felt clammy beneath her touch. She was hardly surprised by it now, although it still made her heart clench to see him in such distress. Whether it was pain, or nightmares, or both, he had barely managed a peaceful night's rest since he arrived home.

Aramis had hypothesised that his initial calmness and quiet sleep when they had first found him and during their journey back to Paris was due to his having been in shock, which had since subsided, and with it, his awareness of both his physical and mental trauma had found the room to come to the surface.

After arriving back in Paris, Aramis had consulted with Doctor Fabien, the garrison's on-call doctor, who had been unable to travel to the Front due to a condition he had with his lungs that prevented him from exerting himself too much without becoming short of breath, and the palace Doctor, Oscar, who's services the Queen had offered. The discussion pertaining to the condition of d'Artagnan's damaged leg was a grim one, and Aramis left the meeting feeling sick to his stomach.

They waited two weeks while d'Artagnan became more adjusted to food and water intake, and when Aramis deemed his body healthy enough to survive the procedure, they drugged him out, methodically re-broke his bones, and then fixed them back in place. Even while under, d'Artagnan groaned and struggled as the doctors worked, and by the time they were done, he had broken into a cold sweat.

The leg was splinted, and Aramis kept him under for a day or two, but ultimately, when he did resurface, the pain lingered as a dense omnipresent throbbing that was stronger than it had been since he had first been shot.

One night, resting against his pillows while Constance was at the palace with Charlie, as his son was now affectionately called, d'Artagnan had looked to Aramis with a look of complete comprehension.

"I'm never going to walk properly again, am I?" he asked.

Aramis was silent for a while, but finally, slowly, nodded his head, before turning to meet d'Artagnan's gaze.

"I'm so sorry, my friend," he said.

D'Artagnan didn't say anything for a long time after that.

Later that night, after leaving to relief himself, Aramis returned to hear his brother crying softly on the other side of the door.

He couldn't bring himself to go in. No matter how much he wanted to be with his brother, he felt that d'Artagnan needed this moment for himself.

Constance knew the deal, she knew that d'Artagnan would never fully recover the full use of his leg, and she knew that he was hurting and depressed. She slept by his side and took in every hitch of his breath, every shifting motion he made, every scream that punctuated the air as the nightmares and the agony trickled into his sleeping consciousness.

As he shifted, trapped in his current nightmare, Constance gently rocked him by the arm and called his name. When he awoke it was with a sudden jolt, and he lay, breathing heavily as Constance whispered gently to him.

"I'm sorry," he finally rasped, as he made a move to turn, only to grimace as the motion caught his splinted leg.

"There is no need," Constance reassured her husband. "You never need to be sorry about this."

D'Artagnan didn't say anything for a while. Constance caught a fleeting look of anger cross his face, but it disappeared as fast as it had arrived.

"I wish you'd say what you think," Constance said softly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" d'Artagnan asked.

"You're always so quiet," Constance explained. "But deep down you're really angry. I see it sometimes, but you won't let it out… buttoning it up won't make the anger go away."

"I don't want to be angry… least of all at you," d'Artagnan grumbled. He was lying on his back, his eyes staring resolutely at the ceiling.

"But you are," Constance prompted.

A long silence overtook the room, with the exception of the soft mewling coming from the crib in the corner.

"Yes," d'Artagnan finally said.

"Tell me why."

"I can't explain it," d'Artagnan said with frustration.

Constance mulled it over for a moment.

"Well if you can't tell me why you're angry, tell me what it is that you're feeling anger towards," she finally said.

"Aren't they pretty much the same thing?" d'Artagnan asked sceptically, glancing towards his wife out the corner of his eye.

"Humour me, dear," Constance coaxed.

D'Artagnan released a long-suffering sigh, but nodded.

"I'm angry at you, and then I'm angry at myself because I don't want to be angry at you," d'Artagnan started slowly, refusing to meet Constance's steady gaze. "I'm angry at Porthos, and Aramis, and Athos, even though I forgive them. I'm angry for having gotten chosen to lead the scout mission all those months ago. I'm angry at the King for starting this blasted war. I'm angry at myself even more so for the fact that I married you before I left, and we consummated that marriage, and because of that, you nearly had to raise a son without me to help. I'm angry that my leg is crippled… and that I'll never be a soldier again.

I'm… You've been at my side since the moment we got back to Paris, and you'll stand by me, and I guess I'm mad at you because you can do right by me, while I can't do the same for you."

D'Artagnan's voice had stayed somewhat level through this rambling, but it was clear that he was getting more and more worked up as he got going.

"Of course I'm by your side," Constance proclaimed. "I'm your wife!"

"But that's what I mean!" d'Artagnan responded in kind, finally meeting her eyes. "You're by my side, and I love you for it, but I can't look after you or provide for you or do anything that a husband should do for his wife. I married you, then left for war, nearly left you a widow with a babe to support, and now I'm here, I can't do more than hop about the garrison, with you taking care of me every step of the way!"

"And did you ever think that maybe I'm okay with that?" Constance asked. "I knew I was marrying a soldier when I walked down that aisle."

"But, don't you see, I'm not a soldier anymore," d'Artagnan said softly. "I've had my commission barely three years. I'll have no means."

"Well, I for one believe that you will get along just fine in the soldiery business, even with a damaged leg," Constance said resolutely. "And for heaven's sake, I spent near on nine months believing you were dead, so I am damn pleased to have you by my side, because I don't ever want to feel that kind of grief again."

D'Artagnan jolted at Constance's words.

"Oh God… I didn't… well I did know that you would have… but… I'm so sorry Constance."

"You're forgiven, on one condition," Constance said pertly.

"Which is?"

"That you stop apologising for all of this, because it is, most resolutely, not your fault," she said. "It just is… it just is, and that sucks, but we just need to accept it and move on with what we still have, which is each other, alive, together."

Constance pulled her husband's face towards her, so he could see how strong her meaning was.

"I love you Charles d'Artagnan, and vowed to stay by your side whatever may come our way, so have faith in _that_ , and crawl out from under that rock you've buried yourself under," she said.

"I don't think I can," whispered d'Artagnan with the voice of a child.

"Then let me help you to," Constance urged.

D'Artagnan stared at his wife, and then nodded. Her lips broke into a resolute smile, and leaning across to kiss him.

"Alright then," she said softly. "Now it's late, so let's sleep a little while longer before our son awakes."

"Aye Madam," d'Artagnan replied, cracking a smile.

"Night night, dear," Constance said, as she lay back and curled into the sheets.

"Good night," d'Artagnan said in an almost half-whisper.


	17. Chapter 17

**AN/ The reunion is here at last! :D This scene is split into two chapters, as that seemed to be the best way to set it out, but rest assured that Athos and d'Artagnan do reunite before this chapter's end. There's four chapters and an epilogue left, and I hope you'll stick around for it.**

 **Also - thank you for all your reviews :) I haven't had a chance to get back to everyone personally in the last few days, but I hope you guys know that they are always appreciated :)**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

It felt like an age since Athos had last been in Paris, and it had been well over a year since he'd left for the Spanish border. It was with trepidation that he rode through the streets of Paris. His duty was to report immediately to Treville at the palace, but he found his thoughts were wholly on that of his youngest brother, who he yearned and dreaded to be reunited with in equal measure.

When the palace came into view, Athos relaxed, truly, for the first time since the war with Spain had been declared. Here, he was safe. Here, he didn't have to worry about an attack from all direction. Here, he was home.

Slowly he trotted through the palace gates where he wearily passed his reins to the stable hand and then went in search of Treville's office. He walked the familiar corridors of the palace, and finally came to a stop at Treville's office. He knocked and waited to be called in.

"Enter!"

"Minister," Athos greeted his old Captain upon entry into the room. Were he not privy to the fact that he was in the palace, he would have thought himself back in Treville's old quarters at the garrison, and he had to jolt himself, to remember where he truly was.

"Athos!" Treville exclaimed happily at his Captain's arrival. "It is very good to see you." The two men embraced and then sat, Athos taking the chair that Treville gestured towards as he circled back behind his desk.

"You look like you've settled into your new role," Athos said in conversation.

"Hardly a new role anymore, though I would say the same for you," Treville said.

Athos pursed his lips, and nodded in agreement.

"I know that the palace is the last place you want to be right now, so we'll try and get through your report as quickly as we can manage," Treville said. "However, the King has gotten wind of your return, and wished to see you upon your arrival, and I can't promise that he'll be as expedient as myself."

"I'll manage," Athos said with a grim smile.

"You've had the enjoyment of playing Captain without the politics," Treville said with amusement. "When this war does come to end you'll have your work cut out for you."

"You didn't do too badly," Athos pointed out.

"Yes, but you'll have noticed the less unsavoury results of trying to not play the politician's game," warned Treville, referring to the turmoil that had resulted from Rocheforth's presence at the palace.

"Duly noted."

"Right then, let's start with the report," Treville said. "The faster we get through it and meet with the King, the quicker you'll be able to go back to garrison and see them all."

There was no need to say who "them" was, but Athos found himself clenching his fist to try and dissuade the desire to get up and go there straight away. Instead, he settled down, and forced himself to give his report in full, answering all of Treville's questions as precisely as he could manage.

The visit with the King was even less enjoyable, and had involved not much talking on Athos' part as the King spoke about his admiration of the musketeers' bravery and strength in the field, while also worrying away at his fear of their potential to lose, although, as Treville kept reminding the sovereign, France all but had the victory in hand, despite their current stalemate.

Eventually, though, Athos was able to leave the palace, and he made his way through the meandering streets towards the garrison. It was late afternoon, and the light was still good, so there was much activity in the courtyard when he did arrive, or at least, the recruits were out training, which gave the impression of there being bodies about, despite the fact that most of the men were at the Front.

"Athos!" Aramis called to his friend from where he was sitting at the shooting range. Springing to his feet, the marksman quickly approached his friend and embraced him. "It is good to see you my friend."

"And you, Aramis."

"I'll take you up shall I?" Aramis said, gesturing towards the barracks.

"Yes… but… wait, Aramis, wait!" Athos stopped his friend from moving away so quickly. "How is he?"

Aramis looked at Athos uncomprehendingly.

"The last news I had of him was that he was in serious ill-health, and that three months ago!" Athos all but cried in exasperation.

"Mon dieu. Of course. I'm sorry, my friend, I forgot you would only have Etienne's report to go on," Aramis cursed his forgetfulness. While he and Porthos had been there to see the boy's recovery Athos had been in the dark for that same period of time.

Aramis reached an arm out and gripped Athos' arm reassuringly.

"He's doing well," Aramis said. "He's now eating and drinking relatively normally now, although Porthos is constantly complaining that he's still too thin, which in fairness is true. He lost a lot of muscle mass that he's yet to have the opportunity to regain. The bruising has all but gone now, and he's less tired and exhausted. His ribs have healed and although he's tackled a few bouts of chest infection since we recovered him, I haven't heard him cough in weeks. He really is doing alright Athos."

Athos remained still, still holding onto the medic's arm.

"And his leg?" asked Athos.

Aramis cringed a little.

"We, that is, myself and the doctors, re-broke his bones and splinted them," Aramis said. "The leg's still splinted, but it no longer pains him as much as it initially did. He… he will never regain full use of the limb again though. I'm sorry Athos."

Athos felt as if he'd been punched. The guilt he had felt over d'Artagnan's supposed death was nothing compared to the guilt of knowing that his decision to move on had not only left d'Artagnan a prisoner of war, but irreparably injured.

"Look, he'll tell you this himself, but it's better he be lamed than dead, as we had all thought," Aramis said bluntly.

"Better still, if neither had happened at all," grunted Athos in response.

Aramis winced and nodded.

"He's this way," Aramis said. "Come on."

Aramis led Athos towards the rooms d'Artagnan shared with Constance and knocked on the door, waiting until Constance shouted through. Exchanging one last glance with Athos, Aramis pushed the door open, and entered.

The room was one of the larger in the barracks, to accommodate the fact that it was being shared. The double bed was empty but for Constance who was sitting on its end with a bundle of baby wrapped in her arms. Athos caught her gaze, before breaking it to roam the room in search of d'Artagnan. Who he found sitting in the chair by the crib, with his splinted leg propped up on a stool.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, a wide grin settling on his face as Aramis stepped out of the way, giving him a full view of his captain and mentor. "What are you doing in Paris?"

Athos couldn't find the words to speak as he all but breathed in the presence of d'Artagnan… sitting up and _alive_.

Constance appeared to notice Athos' predicament and rose from the bed, placing a reassuring hand on the man's arm.

"You find you don't quite believe it until you see him with your own eyes, don't you?" she said softly.

D'Artagnan seemed to realise the true significance that this reunion meant for Athos and leaned forward in his chair.

"I'm okay Athos," he said quietly. "I really am."

Athos couldn't take his eyes off the younger man, until he felt Constance pull at his arm, moving him towards d'Artagnan. After he was pushed to take the first step he managed to carry himself the rest of way under his own steam, and crouched level with his brother, reaching an arm out which d'Artagnan clasped.

Athos released a sob, a short gasping sound that he would have been embarrassed about if it had been sounded in front of anyone else.

"I'm alright," d'Artagnan reassured him. "I'm alright Athos."

Retracting his hand for a moment, d'Artagnan shifted so that he could use the arms of the chair to balance as he stood on his one functional leg. Athos reached out to support him, but d'Artagnan managed to maintain his balance as he reached his arms around his mentor and pulled him into a hug, where the two stayed for quite some time.

"Hello, I heard that… oh, he's here already," Porthos arrived at the doorway to see the scene of d'Artagnan's and Athos' reunion taking place before him.

Athos broke away and turned to see his other brother, standing with a broad grin plastered on his face.

"Well here we are," Porthos said happily. "The Inseparables home together at last."

Athos rarely smiled, but he couldn't stop his lips from curling upwards at Porthos' comment. After all, up until a few months ago, he believed that such a scenario would never again be a possibility.


	18. Chapter 18

**AN/ This chapter is mostly pure, unadulterated gooey-ness. I hope you like it!**

 **I'm going away for the weekend and won't have my computer with me, so I'm afraid this update will have to sustain you all for a few days. I'll be back Monday/Tuesday though.**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen**

The Inseparables were reunited, but as Athos reflected on Porthos' words, his hand still resting on d'Artagnan's shoulder, he felt his brother trembling minutely beneath his clasped hand. He turned to look at d'Artagnan with concern, and saw the Gascon look away to focus on the slow and careful manoeuvre of settling back in the chair.

"What's wrong?" Athos asked anxiously. Now that he had his brother back, _alive_ , the last thing he wanted was to see him in distress.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan placated him. "Just tired, and not entirely stable on my feet… or foot."

Athos looked towards Aramis, but the medic didn't seem concerned.

"So what are you doing in Paris?" d'Artagnan asked once he'd settled back down.

"What? Oh, Treville requested I deliver a verbal report."

Behind him Porthos snorted.

"A likely story," the large musketeer declared.

"You think he engineered it so I could see d'Artagnan?" Athos asked coyly.

"Don't you?" Porthos countered.

"He's the Minister for War," Athos pointed out.

"He's Treville," Aramis argued, as if that was answer enough.

Athos looked as if he might respond, but found himself unable to find a way to contradict the meaning behind Aramis' words.

Constance laughed at the exchange.

"He will always be your Captain," she explained to the four men.

"Doesn't that put Athos out of a job then?" joked d'Artagnan.

"I could hardly fill Treville's shoes," Athos commented.

"No, but you've established yourself as an equally fine, albeit different commander," Aramis said.

Athos frowned, not quite agreeing with Aramis' assessment, but before anymore words could be exchanged an odd gurgling noise made itself heard within the bedchamber. Athos followed the noise, somewhat startled by its happening.

"Ah, of course," Aramis said. "You are yet to meet the littlest and newest addition to the d'Artagnan family."

Athos glanced back towards d'Artagnan who was grinning broadly, his eyes fixated on Constance and the child, now awake, that was nestled in her arms.

"Would you like to meet him, Athos?" Constance asked. "He is, after all, your godson, that is, of course, if you are willing to accept."

Constance held her arms out for Athos to see her child, but Athos could only stare as his brain processed the news he had been told.

"I coul—" Athos shook himself, as the young child stared at him with curious brown eyes. "I don't think—"

"If the next words out of your mouth express doubt of your own ability I'll thank you very much to shut it and think long and hard about how important you are to this family," Constance warned sternly.

Her words may well have been a slap… or a bucket of water. Athos turned to d'Artagnan.

"Don't look at me," the Gascon said, a glint of laughter in his eye. "She made this decision months before I returned to Paris." _Months before she knew I was actually alive_ were the unspoken words.

Athos glanced back at Constance, who looked at him sternly, but kindly.

"Rest assured, that if it's guilt you carry for a decision you made in your role of Captain, it is only you that passes blame upon yourself," Constance said.

"And as much as words by you and d'Artagnan may try to convince me otherwise, I cannot just let that blame go," Athos said. "But I will accept the role as godfather to this child, and know that you're asking this of me means a great deal."

"Thank you Athos," Constance said softly. "Would you like to hold him?"

Athos' facial expression seemed to indicate that holding the child was the last thing that he wanted to do, but he suddenly found Charles in his arms, and it was all he could do to not drop him as he took in the babe for all that he was.

"Well isn't that a sight to behold?" quipped Porthos, breaking the spell.

Athos turned to glare at his brother, but there was no heat behind it.

"Maybe Athos missed his true calling?" Aramis added.

"Are you suggesting that nursing and motherhood is a joke, Aramis?" Constance asked coyly, a dangerous tone slipping into her voice.

"Not in the slightest," Aramis held his hands up in protest, at which point, the baby gurgled and then started crying.

Athos blanched and Constance hurriedly relieved him of his burden.

"I'm sorry," Athos said.

"Pish," Constance discarded the worry. "You did nothing wrong, he's just hungry, that's all."

"I think that might be our cue to leave," Aramis said.

"Yes," Porthos agreed. "We'll be by tomorrow. D'Artagnan, Constance."

The two musketeers left the room, and waited for Athos who looked towards d'Artagnan with a slight air of desperation.

"I'll see you tomorrow," d'Artagnan reassured his mentor. "We'll eat breakfast together downstairs."

The words seemed to reassure Athos and he allowed himself to take his leave, bowing briefly to Constance as he left. As he joined Porthos and Aramis, he found himself desperately yearning to go back… to hear his brother's voice and see him again with his own eyes.

"It wears off," Aramis said reassuringly as he led his friend back towards the courtyard.

"What do you mean?"

"The intense need to not let him out of your sight," Aramis explained. "To reassure yourself that he's still breathing."

"I doubt it'll pass anytime soon," Athos said dully. "Besides, it's only a two week stop over, before we must return."

"We?" Porthos asked.

"I'm sorry, but Treville has ordered us all to move out," Athos said. "He told me earlier. He was happy for you both to remain here initially, but you're needed on the Front, and now that d'Artagnan's health is less precarious…"

"Of course," Aramis nodded. "To be honest, we were expecting to be sent back to the Front much sooner. I'm glad we had as long as we did."

"I can't say how long we will be away from Paris this time," Athos sighed. "We may have crossed the most distance, but right now our horns are locked with Spain, and neither side is able to make a move."

"Well no one said war would be easy," said Porthos.

"But it would have been nice," added Aramis wistfully.

"Nice? Yes. Expected? Not a chance," Porthos exclaimed.

Between them, Athos smiled. It was good to be among brothers again.

It was even better to know that their fourth was still breathing, sitting in a room nearby with his wife and child.


	19. Chapter 19

**AN/ We're nearly at the finish line! Only a few chapters left to go.**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

 _March_

The following morning, d'Artagnan met with him for breakfast as promised. Athos had watched anxiously as d'Artagnan had hobbled down the stairs at an agonisingly slow pace, with Porthos standing at his side, supporting him with every step. When they reached the bottom, d'Artagnan donned his crutches and slowly made his way towards the table where Athos was seated.

Athos took note instantly of the light sheen of sweat that plastered the man's forehead and his trembling arms as he settled himself at the table. He also noted that his youngest brother's breakfast portion was smaller than his own. D'Artagnan saw him looking and smiled mirthlessly.

"I'm still getting used to larger portions," the Gascon explained.

Athos blanched at the words.

"I'm much better though," d'Artagnan continued in an attempt of reassurance. "My breakfast now at least resembles a meal."

The four of them settled down to eat, but Athos detected the small trembling movement in d'Artagnan's hand as he ate. He remembered how his brother had barely been able to stand for longer than a few minutes the previous evening and wondered just how much energy it had taken for him to come down stairs this morning. Aramis saw him watching.

"You seemed to take the stairs a bit faster today," Aramis said, telling Athos that the journey had not been made just for his account.

"I'm finding I have more energy," d'Artagnan shrugged. "I think I'm getting some muscle back too."

"Well you're no longer having trouble holding the babe any longer," Porthos grinned at him.

D'Artagnan smiled, but ducked his head a little. Athos realised the implication of Porthos' words, and found himself looking the Gascon over once more, taking in how thin he truly was in his limbs and torso.

"So what's the news from the Front?" d'Artagnan asked with slightly forced cheerfulness. "I hear we're at something of a stalemate."

"We've… err… we've taken a lot of ground, but at the moment we're at something of an impasse," Athos explained. "Both sides have amassed on either side of large valley, and with the exception of a few small raiding parties, neither has made much headway."

D'Artagnan nodded as he took in the information Athos had supplied. He'd been given an update by Treville, and then again by Porthos and Aramis, but with information taking so longer to travel from place to place, he didn't know the most recent news any more than anyone else in Paris.

"When are you three heading back?" d'Artagnan asked.

All three heads looked up in surprise.

"I might be half of what I was physically, but my eyes and ears work perfectly fine, as does my brain," d'Artagnan argued. "Athos may have been recalled to Paris, but as Captain he can't remain here long, and you two have remained for far longer than you probably should have for two able-bodied soldiers. Not that I'm complaining, mind."

"We're to leave by the end of the fortnight," Athos said finally.

D'Artagnan nodded, pleased to have learnt the truth.

"We'd better enjoy it while we can then," he said. "And we'd better recruit one or two of the new trainees for stairs duty."

"We could speak to Treville…" Aramis started.

"You know he won't – can't – let you stay. You should probably have been sent back weeks ago!" d'Artagnan pointed out. "Look, you have to go, and I have to stay. There will be people here that can look after me, and given that I practically never leave the garrison at the moment you really can't be worried about me. In fact, it will be me that is worrying about all of you."

"You can appreciate why we don't want to leave you though?" Porthos said softly.

"I can," d'Artagnan agreed, dipping his head. "I know that… that believing I was dead will… has made you anxious. I understand it too. But one day you guys are going to have to let it go, and trust that I won't disintegrate into nothing. I'm getting stronger with every passing day."

"But we won't be here to see that," Athos said softly.

"But a Captain must always fulfil his duty to his men," d'Artagnan said gently. "This time, when you leave me behind, as least you know I'm alive and safe."

The words hurt. Maybe d'Artagnan hadn't meant it to, in fact Athos was certain it had meant to be reassuring, but his guilt resurfaced afresh, and he contemplated that the decision to leave d'Artagnan behind a second time was actually much harder than the first. Believing he'd been dead had made the decision, not easy, but easier than this. D'Artagnan seemed to realise what he'd said and reached for Athos.

"I'm so sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean that. I… I wasn't thinking."

Athos didn't know how to respond.

"So much for that brain of yours, hey, whelp," teased Porthos, trying to lighten the mood.

"I'm sorry too, d'Artagnan," Athos finally managed to get his tongue to work. "I shouldn't have left you behind."

"But you couldn't stay to look either," d'Artagnan said. "You made the decision you had to make as Captain. You chose hundreds of lives over one. I will never hold that against you."

Athos stopped himself from responding: _But I will_.

D'Artagnan reached across and took his mentor's hand in his. Athos gripped it tightly, as if to reassure himself that it was real… that d'Artagnan was still there.

"Let's try to enjoy these two weeks together, shall we?" d'Artagnan said.

"Aye," Porthos agreed.

Aramis lifted his cup, and the others joined him, Athos being the last to bring his up to the others.

"To us," Aramis said with a wink.

Porthos chuckled, d'Artagnan grinned, Athos brooded… it was almost as if things were back to normal.


	20. Chapter 20

**AN/ I'm so sorry for not updating sooner. I have no excuse other than work taking over a bit more than it should. Again, I'm sorry, but I hope you'll still stick around for this chapter. There's just one more to go and then an epilogue after this one, so we're nearly at the finish line. Thank you, again, for all your reviews and follows. You're all lovely.**

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

The two weeks had passed quickly, and while the relationship between brothers remained strong, the days were nothing like they used to be. D'Artagnan's dependence on crutches to walk may have been an obvious physical difference, but there were other markers of change: the dark shadows that plagued his sunken eyes, his need to sleep often throughout the day, and his spindly frame that made his slight body in their first months of knowing him look resolutely robust.

There were other differences too. It had been over a year since they had all been together, and while d'Artagnan was nothing but understanding and forgiving, his fellow brothers found it difficult to let go of what happened. Athos, in particular, who had been stewing in his guilt for the last year, found himself feeling sick sometimes as he watched d'Artagnan struggle to move about the garrison, or shake from the energy spent on the simplest and easiest of tasks.

There were other, more positive changes too, though. Constance's presence at the garrison was a blessing, and baby Charlie brought a smile even to Athos, despite his self-pity.

The men spent most of their days at the garrison, although Athos found himself regularly sequestered at the palace, taking meetings with Treville and the King. The agonising meetings which were often long and boring made Athos almost wish to be back at the Front again, where he could be Captain without having to associate with slimy politics. He was beginning to have a whole new appreciation for what Treville had had to put up with for years, and feared the day he found himself taking up permanent residency in Paris again.

There were two days left before Athos was to start his journey back to the Front, alongside Porthos and Aramis. Normally able to sleep at the drop of a hat, a necessary skill developed from being on the road so often and taking what sleep you can get, Athos found himself resolutely unable to drift off.

At the hours ticked by, Athos found himself getting more and more frustrated with himself and finally he flung the covers off and launched himself out of the bed. He dressed quickly and left his room, hoping the night air might relax him enough to sleep when he returned to his bed. He was still taking up residence in his old room in the main barracks, having not had time to move his things into the captain's quarters given how quickly the war had followed his promotion.

He walked briskly along the walkway and looked up towards the clear night sky. The moon was out and offered up a clear view of the Parisian rooftops from behind the garrison walls. The courtyard below was empty, and he found himself wondering as to how many people were actually in the garrison. Most likely very few.

He sighed, his thoughts going back to the travelling community of soldiers that have been his home for about a year and a half. It was odd to miss it, but he did.

His thoughts were interrupted by a muffled grunt or shout coming from further down the walkway. Athos turned and followed the noise as another shout permeated the air and then stopped short as he reached d'Artagnan's door. There was another gasp, then Constance's voice clearly calling her husband's name, and then the sound of crying.

The whole event couldn't have lasted more than half a minute, and Athos stood at the door, his hand on the handle, transfixed.

A nightmare. His tired brain supplied. He's having nightmares.

It was to be expected, given what d'Artagnan had suffered through, but it still blew the air out of Athos' lungs. He stood there for quite some time, listening to d'Artagnan's quiet sobbing, and Constance's gentle voice soothing him. Eventually, he was able to release his hold on the door handle, and move back towards his own rooms.

He wrote a quick note, explaining that he had gone ahead and would meet Aramis and Porthos at an Inn further down the road in a few days' time, and then packed his belongings. It didn't take long. He didn't have much with him, and most of the supplies the three of them would need for the journey back to the Front, had already been put together.

At the stables, he started to load his mount when he heard an expectant cough from the stable doorway.

He turned to find Constance standing there, d'Artagnan's blue cloak wrapped around her night dress to stay warm, a bucket in her hand. She had obviously been taking a trip down to the well.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked him. There was anger threaded into her voice.

"I'm heading to the Front," Athos tried to explain.

"I know where you're going, you idiot," Constance chastised. "I want to know why you're leaving in the middle of the night without giving us a chance to say goodbye!"

Athos couldn't find the words to speak.

"You heard him?" she asked suddenly, inquisitively.

Athos nodded.

"And it makes you feel guilty?"

"Yes," Athos replied curtly.

"So you think running away is the best way to deal with it?"

"Dammit Constance! I am responsible for… I'm the reason that he's so… that he's so…"

"Damaged?"

"Yes!"

Athos heaved a huge sigh.

"You know you had to make a Cap—"

"A Captain's decision? Yes I know" sighed Athos. "It doesn't make it any easier though."

"I know, and I also know it's easier for him to forgive you than it is for you to forgive yourself," Constance said.

"I hear a "but" coming," Athos said with resignation.

" _But_ , you will eventually forgive yourself," Constance said. "I'll tell you what I do know, though. If you leave without saying goodbye, d'Artagnan will find it far harder to forgive you for that."

Athos gawped at the woman.

"Think about it," she said. "And give yourself a second chance."

"I'm not sure I can," Athos finally admitted.

"It's alright to think that," Constance said. "But I do know that running away from the problem won't make it any easier."

The two stood in silence for a short while, the horse shuffled beside Athos, who finally hung his head.

"You're right, of course," he said with resignation.

Constance positively beamed.

"I always am," she said brightly. "See you at breakfast tomorrow, Athos."

Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to the courtyard, and Athos found himself left alone with the horse.

He still considered it, if only briefly. The thought of running away was appealing, but the thought of Constance's anger swayed him, and he started to retrieve his gear to return to his rooms.

He may have thought he would never forgive himself for leaving d'Artagnan the first time, but he'd most certainly never forgive himself for leaving him like this now.


	21. Chapter 21

**AN/ We're nearly there! There's just the epilogue left to go, which I hope you'll hang around for, but for now, there's this.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty One**

 _One Year Later_

Spring was starting to make its presence known as the convoy reached the final leg of their journey. The war had lasted just under three years, and had been hard fought, and hard won, but France had finally earned its victory and now the Musketeers were on their way home.

For some of the men, they hadn't been home since they set foot out of the garrison almost three years ago. Athos counted himself lucky that he'd had the chance to visit home during the war, even if for so short a time. He was even more grateful for Constance having discovered his attempts to run away during the night, too.

Wounds heal with time. They leave scars, sometimes they leave residual pain, but they eventually close, become easier to forget, and, later, easier to remember without it hurting quite so much. The grief and guilt Athos had felt over losing d'Artagnan, over leaving him behind, had taken a long time to heal, but as the war moved forward, as the letters from his friend continued to reach him from Paris, and as he began to realise that not only was he a good soldier but a good captain, he finally learnt to let it go.

It wasn't completely gone, of course, but it was easier to forget, and one day, it would be easier to remember too. Forgiveness, after all, can be a long road, especially when it's yourself that you must forgive.

The musketeers walked into Paris atop their mounts with their blue cloaks rustling in the wind, and their heads held high.

The streets were lined with civilians cheering and throwing flowers, which had just started to bloom. Some of the younger recruits, who had joined at the eve of the war, or even after it had begun, found themselves much enjoying the attention. Many of the older soldiers were slightly less bowled over, or felt embarrassed, as did Athos. Of course, there were other older soldiers that were very much enjoying the attention, Aramis, unsurprisingly, being one.

When they reached the garrison, the space was quieter, and eerily empty. As the musketeers filed in, Athos issued orders for the horses to be properly tended, the equipment to be logged and stored, and then he sought out Serge.

"It'll be nice to have some more mouths to feed," Serge said with a half-toothless smile.

"It's good to be back," Athos said. "I need you to arrange the rooms in the barracks. We've obviously lost some men, and gained some that might not have lodgings…"

"I've been keeping track," Serge said. "I'll make sure there's somewhere for everyone."

"Many thanks," Athos said. "I must report to the palace, but I'll be back this evening."

As he headed towards the courtyard, he paused and looked back.

"I thought I'd see d'Artagnan when we arrived back?" Athos asked.

"You'll see him at the palace," Serge said, grinning widely. "He's been looking forward to your return for days now."

Athos nodded and strode off, issued a few more orders, and then set off towards the palace. He wondered what d'Artagnan was now doing. He'd known that with the damage done to the leg, that his brother would never be able to return to soldiering, so maybe he had taken up some role at the palace since then, although he'd made no mention of it in his letters.

Shaking his head in thought, he briskly trotted towards the palace, and dismounted with relief upon arrival: he'd been travelling for so long all he could feel was the saddle beneath his thighs.

He straightened and then walked through the palace towards the throne room, where he had been directed. He arrived to find the King and Queen in their seats upon the stage. To their right, near the Queen, stood Constance, decked in pastel pink, and with the Dauphin stood beside her, his hand holding onto hers. Athos was surprised by the child's appearance, but then reminded himself that it had been nearly three years since he'd seen him.

To the left of the King, stood Treville, and beside him, d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan was dressed in his musketeer regalia, his blue cloak proudly on display, his sword attached to his belt, his hair tied at the nape of his neck, and a cane in his left hand, supporting him.

Athos' and d'Artagnan's eyes met, and the younger soldier smiled brightly at the sight of his returned mentor.

"Your majesty," Athos intoned, breaking his eyes from d'Artagnan and bowing before the royals. "I have the official surrender from the King of Spain."

He rose and then approached, passing the sealed scroll to the King. It was, in essence, a mere formality. But it felt somewhat like a true ending, to place the scroll into the king's hand.

"Thank you, Captain," replied the King. "You have served your country with honour and dignity throughout this long campaign."

"I did nothing but my duty, Sire."

"And you did your duty well," the King responded. "I'll leave you to finalise the report with Treville now, and we'll meet properly later this week."

"Yes, your majesty."

The room bowed, as the King and Queen rose, with Constance following, the Dauphin still holding her hand.

The room emptied for all but Athos, Treville, and d'Artagnan, and Athos turned towards them to see d'Artagnan limping across to him, before enveloping him in a large hug.

"It is good to see you brother," d'Artagnan said happily.

"And you," Athos replied, embracing his brother. He was relieved to feel the muscle clinging to his friend's body once more.

He finally, reluctantly, released d'Artagnan and moved to shake Treville's hand.

"It is good to have you home, Athos," Treville said happily. "Shall we meet in my office?"

Athos nodded, and the three men walked the corridors, their pace wordlessly slowed a little to compensate for d'Artagnan's limp.

"You look well, d'Artagnan," Athos finally said.

"I've had a lot of time to recover," d'Artagnan said. "Oh, before I get in trouble for forgetting, you, Aramis, and Porthos are all invited to dinner tonight. Constance's orders."

"Then we'd better turn up," Athos said, a smirk detectable on his lips. "Hold on, where? Not at the garrison?"

There was a slight pause in d'Artagnan's gait.

"Um… We've moved from the garrison," d'Artagnan finally explained. "We needed more room with Charlie getting so big, and we found somewhere nearer the palace that was more convenient for both of us. Besides, I'm not an active soldier anymore. I can't keep my room in the barracks forever."

"We would never have kicked you out d'Artagnan," Athos chastised.

"I know," d'Artagnan said. "Please don't take it personally. It really was too small a space for a roaming one year old and another on the way."

"He's one?!" Athos asked. "Wait, hold on! Constance is expecting again?"

D'Artagnan didn't try to hide his grin. Treville let out a snort at Athos' incredulity.

Athos glanced at his former Captain, who simply smiled back at him.

When they reached Treville's office, they all filed in, and it took Athos a moment to realise that d'Artagnan was joining them. He looked between the two men in silent question.

"D'Artagnan was promoted to my deputy about six months ago," Treville said. "The idea was that he would gain the necessary political experience and provide his knowledge and input on the war at hand at the same time. Hence why he's sitting in this meeting."

"And now the war is over?" Athos asked, secretly pleased that Treville had taken d'Artagnan under his wing.

"I'm to shift from Minister for War to Minister of Defence," Treville said. "D'Artagnan is to remain my deputy, but more formally take on the role of Captain of Civil Defence."

D'Artagnan looked away a little shyly.

"He's concerned that he skipped Lieutenant, but I feel he's up for the job," Treville added. "And the King agrees."

"And what does the job actually entail?" Athos asked, looking at d'Artagnan, who had sat down near the window, and was tapping his good leg repetitively with his fingers.

"Treville's disbanding the red guard," d'Artagnan said. "He's putting me in charge of a new guard… we're starting from scratch."

"Only way to get rid of the decay, is to cut it all out and start again," Treville explained.

"Have you started already?" Athos asked.

D'Artagnan shook his head.

"The plan is that recruits for both the guard and the musketeers will train together, and then you and I will choose from there," d'Artagnan said. "We want to build a more cohesive unit between musketeer's and guard, and create a relationship we can trust."

"And I thought how better to do it, then have you two, as close friends, take the helm," Treville added. "Now shall we put this war to rest, at last?"

"Yes," Athos agreed, shaking his head slightly.

/\/\/\/\

That night, as the four brothers and Constance sat around a table filled with food and wine, Athos found a moment spare to lean across to d'Artagnan and grip him by the arm.

"I couldn't be prouder," he said quietly. "It will be an honour to work alongside you again."

D'Artagnan grinned broadly, lifted his glass, and they drank to the future.


	22. Epilogue

**AN/ And, at last, the end. This was such fun to write, and the longest story I've ever posted! Thank you to everyone who's read it, or who has reviewed, faved, and followed. You're all awesome. I hope you enjoy the conclusion to the narrative.**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

 _Four Years Later_

Athos watched as Etienne marched the newest set of recruits through their paces. They were a skilled bunch, and were well on their way to becoming fully fledged members of the Musketeers or Parisian Guard. D'Artagnan's guard looked nothing like the old Red Guard, nor did they act with the ruthless and corrupt malevolence as their predecessors. The recruitment process for both musketeers and guard was not only strength and skill with weaponry, but also good character, something that both Athos and his protégé took very seriously.

One of the recruits lurched forward in the circle and tackled Etienne with his sword. Etienne parried and the two fought well, until suddenly the recruit feigned to the left and got the upper hand.

"Not bad, Edmund," Etienne praised.

One of the other recruits snorted.

"Is there a problem, Durant?" Etienne asked.

The recruit in question was one that Athos didn't take particularly care for. He was cocky and had something of a nasty streak that meant his competition wasn't quite as light hearted as it was amongst the other recruits. Athos had to admit that the young man was good, but unless he learnt to grow up and put his brother's first, he wouldn't find much room for him in either the guard or the musketeers.

"You're going easy on him," Durant responded. "You're giving people easy wins."

"If you're suggesting I detected Edmund's feign, then yes, you are correct," Etienne said smoothly, "but we're looking at technique today, and sometimes the best way to demonstrate it, is to see what it looks like when it's successful."

"Men at war don't go easy on one another," Durant pointed out.

"No, they don't," Etienne acknowledged. "But this is training."

"Maybe it was this kind of shoddy training that resulted in your injury when at war?" Durant said snidely.

"Maybe it was the three to one odds and an unexpected ambush in unfamiliar territory on an overcast night," Etienne responded tightly, clearly at his rags end with the man. There was an intake of breath amongst the group of recruits. Athos started to make his way down from the balcony towards the group.

"Uncle 'Thos!" a small yet loud voice interrupted the stand-off.

Athos, Etienne, and the recruits looked up to see a small child race amongst the recruits' feet to throw himself at his godfather. Athos gruffly picked him up and gave him a strong hug.

"Well, hello Charlie!" he said brightly… or at least as brightly as Athos ever managed.

Walking behind his son was d'Artagnan, his fleur-de-lis pauldron bared on his shoulder, and his dark blue cloak billowing behind him; the new uniform of the Parisian Guard, modelled off its Captain's former position. A smooth wooden cane supported his step, but he moved with speed and a lilting grace.

"Athos," d'Artagnan grinned upon seeing his friend.

"Hello, d'Art," Athos replied, still holding Charlie up.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan asked, looking about the recruits standing in his proximity. "Thought I heard someone mouthing off at Etienne?"

"Just a disagreement over the training regime," Etienne replied smoothly. It would have taken a close friend to the man to see his deep-lying anger. D'Artagnan was one of those friends. He'd also heard most of the preceding conversation.

"What was the disagreement?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I believe we're not getting proper training," Durant interjected, the slime all but dripping off his words.

"Is that so?" d'Artagnan asked. "I would have thought Etienne an excellent teacher."

"Like you could do any better," Durant said sharply.

"What's that supposed to mean?" D'Artagnan kept his voice level, even friendly.

"He seems to be arguing that you and I are poor fighters because we were injured during the war," Etienne replied drably. D'Artagnan wasn't sure what had stopped the man from punching the recruit before now.

"Shall we put it to the test?" d'Artagnan asked.

"What?" Durant asked, surprised.

"You and I can duel, if you'd like," d'Artagnan said. "Don't worry. When you lose, I'll let you continue your training."

"When?" Durant gawped, mockingly, his eyes going to d'Artagnan's cane. "Not a chance."

"Shall we put your sword where your mouth is then?" d'Artagnan asked, as he slipped his cloak off.

Beyond their group, other musketeers were coming out to see what all the fuss was about. Porthos and Aramis came to join Athos, with Porthos lifting Charlie on his broad shoulders.

"Shall we watch daddy wipe the floor with this… this gentleman?" Porthos asked the child, grinning toothily as he amended his language. Charlie for his part, simple watched with apt attention.

"I'll go easy on you, seeing as your kid is watching," Durant said coyly.

"How kind," d'Artagnan responded, suddenly lurching forward and drawing his sword, taking the recruit by surprise. "But you may wish to take this a bit more seriously. After all, it needs to feel real, does it not?" D'Artagnan threw the recruit's earlier comments back in his face, and Durant scowled, and crouched into a defensive pose.

"This'll be good," Aramis said as he leaned against the bannister and watched his friend parry the recruit's sloppy attack.

"Your technique needs work, Durant!" Athos shouted. Etienne all but beamed with glee at the idea of d'Artagnan putting Durant in place.

Durant was fierce in his attack, but kept overstepping and swinging wide. He tried multiple times to take out d'Artagnan on his left side, perceiving it to be the weaker one, only to find himself knocked back.

Despite being reliant on a cane to support his left leg, d'Artagnan's sword arm was still excellent, and he'd spent the last four years learning how to move his body to protect his left side, and still move cleanly and quickly. It wasn't always the most graceful of fighting styles, and he'd never go back into the field, but it worked for the guard posts he did take up, and for his role as Captain.

Athos had to admit he was impressed, even now. He also saw at least four different times that d'Artagnan could have taken Durant and didn't. Instead he let Durant work himself up more and more, until even the recruit could recognise himself floundering. Finally, d'Artagnan put an end to it, and went in to take the "killing blow".

"Your technique's sloppy Durant," d'Artagnan informed the recruit. "Maybe you should pay attention to Etienne's tutelage. That way, when you're party of ten is ambushed by a raiding party of thirty-five men strong, you might make it out alive."

D'Artagnan offered his hand to the downed recruit, but Durant refused to take it, and instead scowled as d'Artagnan nodded gravely to Etienne and turned towards his friends and his son.

Meanwhile, Durant picked himself off the floor, considering what move to make next.

"Don't you dare!" an angry female voice interrupted his movement as he lurched towards d'Artagnan's back. At the same time, Athos and Aramis moved to stand either side of their friend's now defended back, and Etienne raised his sword to the recruit's chest level. Porthos remained where he was, but lifted Charlie down from his shoulders so the child wouldn't have a full view of the action going on.

Durant stopped short.

"Going after someone when their back is turned is a cowardly and dishonourable thing to do," Constance d'Artagnan said sharply. She had watched the fight undetected at the entrance of the garrison, but now stood by her husband as he turned to face the recruit. In her arms she held Anne d'Artagnan, her and d'Artagnan's three year old daughter, who had been born not many months after the war had ended.

Durant looked as if he didn't know how to respond.

Athos exchanged looks with d'Artagnan who nodded.

"You're out of here, Durant," Athos said. "Pack your room. I want you gone by nightfall."

"That's not fair!"

"You attempting to attack a man who had his back turned," Aramis interjected. "That was hardly fair."

Durant looked ready to protest further, but thought better of it, seeing the wall of angered expressions he was met with. Silently he stalked off.

"As you were, people!" shouted Athos. The garrison sprang back into life. Etienne patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder and went back to the remaining group of recruits.

"Treville asked me to drop his off for you," Constance said, handing a letter to Athos, as d'Artagnan took a hold of his daughter and gave her kiss, to her squealing delight.

"Thank you," Athos said. "I'll read it later. But first, we have something to go celebrate."

"Yes, well, don't keep him too late," Constance said.

"We'll drop the pup off before dawn, don't you worry," Porthos teased.

"Ha ha," d'Artagnan intoned.

"He loves it really," Aramis grinned, ruffling the man's hair. "Let's go."

"I'll see you later, love," d'Artagnan said, kissing his wife and leaving her with the children as his three brother's cajoled him out of the garrison for the night's birthday celebrations.

The war had changed them all, but, in the end, it didn't break them.

 **THE END**


End file.
